Moats and Boats and Waterfalls
by blueink3
Summary: Home. The word is given new meaning for five-year-old Emma when she's dropped off with her new foster parent. (AU, obvi)
1. Prologues

_Prologue_

Julia Gordon hates her job.

She's been a social worker for the past five years and it hasn't gotten any easier, attempting to find a home for children who've never had a proper one. She always wonders if the driveway she's pulling into belongs to the good sort or the bad sort. She likes to think she has a sixth sense about these things, but she's been proven wrong before. The loveliest of foster parents upon first meeting can turn out to be the most ruthless the minute the door is shut behind her.

She glances in the rearview mirror, observing the little girl in the backseat as she stares at the passing scenery.

"Almost there," she says, just to fill the silence.

The little girl doesn't respond; just continues to stare at the woods beyond the window.

In her almost six short years, the child has seen more than her fair share of the bad sort. More than any child should. Five years on the job and Julia has handled her case for three of them. She thought that surely the last couple would be _the _couple, but two months later and the little girl was back in her office with bruises up and down her arms.

She truly thought she had exhausted the rather lengthy list of potentials when it came to this case, but lo and behold, another file made its way across her desk.

"It's near the water. You can feed the ducks."

Blue eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror, but still, the girl remains silent.

Julia pushes her glasses further up on her nose and squints as she passes another road sign. Ten more miles.

She listens as the little feet tap out a rhythm on the back of the passenger side seat and she can't help the smile that spreads across her face. She's going to miss the girl. But for her own sake, Julia hopes her file doesn't come across her desk again.

Emma Swan deserves her happy ending. Perhaps more than any child she's ever worked with.

Julia holds her breath as she finally passes the town line, praying to any god listening that the girl with the blue eyes and blonde curls will find peace here.

Light rain begins to patter the windshield as she turns onto Main St. and Julia glances at the piece of paper in her lap, reading the directions off once more.

The town is cute, if a little run down. She doesn't see many children, but perhaps they're in school. It is a Tuesday, after all.

She makes a left and then a right, pausing at a stop sign to glance at the large homes lining either side of the street. The houses get smaller the further they drive, but finally…

_212… 214…_

"Ah, 216. We're here," she announces as she pulls the car into the driveway of a decently sized two-story home. It's white with blue trim and the lawn is freshly mowed, so at least they know how to take care of _some_ things.

"Come on, Emma, grab your blanket."

"Yes, Miss Gordon," the girl mumbles as she unstraps her seatbelt and hugs the white wool close to her chest.

They've been through his too many times. Julia knows it and, if the way the girl is looking up at the house with trepidation is any clue, Emma knows it too.

Julia grabs the small bag from the trunk, the entirety of Emma's possessions, and holds out her hand for the little girl to take.

"Miss Gordon," Emma tugs her to a stop in the middle of the walkway. "If they don't want me – "

"Sweetheart, they want you. They _asked _for you."

"But if they don't, can I… can I come live with you?"

It takes all of a moment for Julia's heart to split in two, as she bends down eye-level with the child, taking both of her hands in hers.

"You can't, Emma. I'm sorry, but you know I'm not allowed." The thought had certainly crossed her mind before – somewhere between the third and fourth time Emma ended up in the hospital and her foster fathers ended up in court. But she cannot be a social worker _and _a foster parent at the same time. Her boss had told her so on more than one occasion when she came to plead Emma's case.

The brief flicker of hope fades from the girl's face and Julia taps her chin, gently making her gaze meet hers.

"You have my number. Keep it safe. And if anything happens, anything at all, you call me and I'll drop everything and come get you."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Emma nods and Julia takes her hand once more, leading them up the steps to the porch. She rings the bell, its noise shrill yet short, and heavy footballs echo in the hall a moment before the door swings open.

"Hi," the young man says, smiling wide at Julia first and Emma second. His gaze lingers on the child, his expression soft, and if Julia's gut reaction is anything to go by (and it usually is), she's leaving the girl in capable hands.

"Mr. Nolan?"

"David, please," he responds, holding out his hand to shake. "And you must be Emma."

Emma slowly nods her head, her eyes fixated on her shoes.

"She's a little shy," Julia offers and David nods.

"Completely understandable. Come on in – Let me get that." He takes the small bag from her hand and places it by the staircase, before ushering them into the pale yellow living room.

"Will Mrs. Nolan be joining us?"

His expression goes tight and immediately Julia's hackles are up.

"There's been a slight change in plan…" he begins and Julia's heart drops into her stomach.

_Please no. Please don't do this to her now. _

"My wife… she's… well." He spares a glance towards Emma, but the girl seems thoroughly preoccupied with picking lint off of her blanket. "We're separating."

The air leaves Julia's lungs in a _whoosh _and David must note the panicked look on her face because he immediately steps forward, arms raised in what he probably hopes is reassurance.

"I still want her."

And it's those four words that bring Emma's gaze to the man standing before them. It's those four words that make her cock her head and study him, as if _really _seeing him for the first time.

"I'm not sure how this works – I don't know if you allow single foster parents, but if she'll have me, I want her." He stuffs his hands into his pockets, gaze darting from social worker to child.

"You want me?" comes the quiet voice, blue eyes wide with long lost hope.

"I do. More than anything," he replies. "If you'll have me."

And suddenly, Julia finds two pairs of blue eyes silently pleading for her to say 'yes,' and something inside her, that sometimes-faulty gut reaction is telling her that these two belong together. They even look alike, with their blonde hair and stubborn expressions.

"Can I stay, Miss Gordon?"

She sighs heavily and raises an eyebrow at the child, before turning to David and finding him already smiling.

"You'll need to redo a few forms. Take your wife's name off of them."

"I'll fill out as many forms as you need me to."

She wants to be annoyed – he could have _called _– but Emma is actually _smiling _and the sight of happiness on that child's face makes any extra paperwork insignificant. She pulls a folder and a pen from her briefcase and hands them to David Nolan with what she hopes is a threatening glance.

And he smiles a charming smile that seems to reply, _I know you're not happy, but I will prove you wrong. _

He fills it out at the kitchen table, just after he offers Emma some juice and animal crackers. He offers them to Julia as well, but she politely declines with an amused smile.

With forms signed and sealed, and sugary elephants all consumed, David leads them upstairs under the pretext of putting Emma's suitcase in her room, but really allowing Julia time to examine the place. Her boss had interviewed the Nolans and told her of the charming home, but Julia wanted proof herself, which David was more than willing to provide.

"Just in here…" he says as he bumps a door open revealing a bedroom with pale green wallpaper and a single bed pressed up against the wall. The bed has two sets of bedding on top of it, along with a couple of stuffed animals and a small bedside light.

Julia nearly gasps at the preparation. At the _thought _that went into Emma's arrival.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want pink or purple, so I got both and we can return whichever one you don't want," he explains as Emma wanders into the room, as if in a trance.

She glances at the choices and Julia sees tears pooling in the girl's eyes. But before she can even ask if she's okay, David is kneeling down in front of her and gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Hey, hey. If you don't like either, we can easily remedy that. It's okay."

Emma remains silent, continuing to stare at the bedding and David glances up at Julia, thoroughly confused. Julia clears her throat and gestures to the room.

"She's not used to this."

"This…"

"Generosity," is the word she settles on and David's forehead immediately creases in understanding. He looks pained as he stares at the child, who now refuses to meet his gaze.

"Tell you what. How about you and I go to the store tomorrow, and you can pick out whichever color you want. Sound good?"

Emma slowly brings her gaze from his boots to his eyes, a question lingering on the tongue that peeks out in between her lips. "Is blue okay?"

David laughs. "Blue's perfect."

"It's not girly, though."

He places a hand on her head, brushing her curls away from her face. "Any girl who likes blue is my kinda girl."

They finish the tour; the house is clean save for the pile of clothes on the chair in his bedroom, which is pretty impressive for a recently separated man. They shake hands again, and she offers him her card. It's the same card that Emma has hidden away in her backpack in case of emergencies, but Julia knows it probably won't get much use.

The little girl's arms wrap around her waist and Julia breaks all sorts of protocol as she bends down and places a kiss on her head.

"Be good for Mr. Nolan."

"I will," she replies, pulling away with a smile.

The girl's smiled more in the last five minutes than she has in the last three years. It makes Julia both elated and a little bit sad.

And as she drives away, she actually looks in the rearview mirror because, for the first time in a long time, she has a feeling she won't be back.


	2. Introductions

**Oh my! I'm completely overwhelmed by the response! Thank you so much for the reviews! xo**

_Introductions_

This might have been a huge mistake.

There is a child sitting in his kitchen, adorably swinging her legs back and forth in a chair that is entirely too big for her, and he has absolutely no idea what to do with her.

David rubs his forehead as he stares at her from the living room, heart both overwhelmingly full and incredibly panicked at the sight of her. This would have been easier with Kathryn, but he knows that's a road he can't go down. He wanted this more than she did. She chose to go and he didn't stop her. Truth be told, it was an inevitability; one that he has since come to accept.

If forced to choose between the woman in the picture over the mantle and the little girl at his dining room table, he'd go with the little girl.

"Mr. Nolan, can we go feed the ducks? Miss Gordon said there are ducks." She looks at him with such hope and _oh boy _there's no way he can refuse that face.

Ducks. Ducks are good.

"Sure we can feed the ducks. Come on, let's get your coat."

She hops down from the chair and hurries into the living room, pulling her coat on with such haste that she gets tangled up in the sleeves.

"Hold on, hold on," he chuckles as he crouches down and attempts to free her.

"I got stuck."

"You did."

"I'm sorry."

He pauses, frowning. "You don't have to apologize. I get stuck, too."

"You do?" Her voice is so quiet, so unsure, and he realizes in that moment that she's actually frightened.

"Of course I do. I got caught in my sheets getting out of bed this morning. And you know what happened?" he asks as he taps her nose.

"What?"

"I fell flat on the floor." Peels of laughter spill out of her and David grins at his victory. "You don't have to call me Mr. Nolan, you know."

"No?"

"You can call me David."

Her lips move around the word, silently trying it out. "Okay. David."

"Okay. Let's go see some ducks."

He stands and moves towards the door, but not before her tiny hand slides into his. He stops dead, breath catching in his throat, as he gently takes hold of her little palm, marveling at how it disappears in his.

And suddenly it's not so scary, the thought of this five-year-old girl in his life.

xxxxxx

Granny's is their first stop, though, when David thinks to ask if she's eaten lunch and she shakes her head.

"They've got great grilled cheese. Do you like grilled cheese?"

"What's grilled cheese?" she responds and David consciously has to keep his jaw from dropping.

"Well, I'll get you one and you'll see. It's yummy."

She nods and he has to remember that her little legs can't keep up with his. It's the tiny adjustments he makes to accommodate this new person in his life. He keeps her hand tight within his, minding the streetlights even if it's his inclination to jaywalk, and pointing out the rather sparse sights that Storybrooke has to offer.

"And that's where I work. The animal shelter."

"You work with animals?" Her eyes go wide as she looks at the dog and cat depicted on the sign that honestly needs a new coat of paint. Still. She's staring at it as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"I do. I take care of them: feed them, walk them. Keep them company. You can come with me one day… If you'd like."

Her gaze finds him then, and yes, he's pretty positive he'd commit murder if those blue eyes asked him to. He was done for the moment she stepped foot on his front porch.

He clears his throat, finding it suddenly oddly tight, and points across the street towards the neon sign. "And that… is Granny's. She's gonna love you."

"Is she your Grandma?"

He laughs and gently runs a hand over her head. "No. But that's what everyone calls her."

"Oh," she says in a tone that says she doesn't quite understand, but she's willing to roll with it.

The bell over the door jingles as he enters, holding it open with one hand and guiding Emma in with the other. The diner seems to stop as every patron stares at them and David shifts uncomfortably under their judgment. They really shouldn't be surprised – word had traveled fast that the Nolans were taking in a foster child – but perhaps most people assumed the plans had fallen through when word also made its way around that the Nolans were no longer "The Nolans."

"Good afternoon to you all, too," he wryly responds. There aren't many: Leroy, Dr. Hopper, a few of the dockworkers, Graham, and obviously Ruby and Granny. But their gaze is heavy as Emma presses slightly closer to his leg.

"Come on, sweetheart," he whispers, the endearment falling easily from his tongue as Granny comes bustling over from behind the counter, all smiles and warm embraces. He knew he could count on her.

"This must be Emma."

Emma presses even closer to his leg, gripping his hand with all her little might, as she eyes Granny warily.

"Emma, this is Granny. And she makes the best grilled cheese this side of the Mississippi." He turns his attention to Granny and explains, "She's never had one."

And Granny (god love her) faux gasps and immediately bends down so she's practically nose-to-nose with the little girl.

"Then I'll make yours extra special."

Her warm presence coaxes a smile from the little girl and Granny ushers them both to a booth, her hand lingering a little longer on David's shoulder than normal. He gathers strength from the silent show of support.

Archie waves and David returns the gesture, smiling widely as Graham sidles up to his table.

"So this must be the famous Emma Swan."

"I'm not famous," she quickly says, as if admitting anything to the contrary would get her into some kind of trouble.

"Around here you are," Graham replies. He holds his hand out and David watches as her eyes flick from his hand to his badge to his face and back again. He's about to say _she's a little shy_ – the same words Julia Gordon had whispered to him – but before he can get the first syllable out, she's taking Graham's hand and allowing him to gently shake it up and down. "Nice to meet you, Miss Swan. I'm Graham."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Graham."

The sheriff chuckles and claps David on the back. He had acted as a sounding board for him not two nights ago over beers when David proceeded to tell Graham how terrified he was about the decision to bring Emma into his life.

"You'll be fine," Graham had said. "No one deserves to be a father more than you. Foster or otherwise."

And the words had knocked him absolutely silent. Talk eventually moved on to sports, but those words stuck with him, lulling him to sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

"You'll call if you need anything, yeah?" Graham winks at Emma and she blushes, ducking her head.

"You got it," David laughs, watching as the sheriff exits the diner, dinging the little bell. "That's Graham."

"I like him," Emma grins. "He talks funny."

xxxxxx

The ducks are relatively uneventful – only three show up – but Emma reacts as if it's a party thrown in her honor. She laughs as she pulls stale bread that Granny gave them apart and tosses it into the water, awed by the little animals nibbling the soggy pieces.

David has enough forethought to grab onto the back of Emma's shirt as she leans out over the water, attempting to pet the latest duck to take bread from her hand. The red material stretches, showing a bit of her pale neck and the bruise that starts at her shoulder blade and disappears down her back.

He tries not to gasp, he really does, but it escapes anyway despite his best intentions. And Emma immediately freezes, pulling away from the water and cowering on the grass as if she's done something wrong.

"What'd I do? I'm sorry!" she whimpers, clutching the stale bread to her chest like a teddy bear.

David's need to tear apart the person that did this to her is warring rather brutally with his desire not to frighten her, and he crouches down holding up his hands even as they shake.

"You didn't do anything, sweetheart. I promise. I thought…" he struggles for something to say, "I thought I forgot to get something, but I didn't. It's okay."

He scoots a little bit closer and it's to the girl's credit that she doesn't back away from him. His hands are still shaking, but so is she so perhaps it all evens out. It takes a moment, but eventually she stops cowering and crawls back to the edge of the water, tossing the rest of the bread at the one duck that remains.

David, however, is glued to the grass wondering how the hell he didn't emotionally prepare himself for this. He read her file. He listened to the social worker explain the situation. "Abuse" was a term thrown around again and again and used to describe situation after situation, but still, he didn't think of what would happen when he actually _saw _the bruises marring her perfect skin. When he actually _thought_ of the men whose palms were imprinted in carefully considered places to be hidden beneath her clothes.

He never _realized, _which is why he's slumped sideways on the ground watching the little girl who's decided to place her trust in him, of all people.

"Emma, I need to tell you something," he finally croaks. She turns from the water and kneels in front of him, as he takes her little hands in his. "I will never, _ever _hurt you."

He leaves it at that, and her face becomes an inscrutable mask, staring at him as if trying to tell if he's lying or not.

"Okay," she finally whispers, apparently deeming him honest.

"Okay," he repeats.

He doesn't want to treat her like glass, but his touch is still hesitant when he places a hand on the back of her neck to guide her on their way home.

He wonders how many other hurts she's hiding where no one can see, on her skin and in her heart.

He wonders how long it will take to heal them, and if she'll think him worthy of the task.

He hopes beyond hope that he's worthy of the task.


	3. Night Lights

**Many of you are concerned that Snow/MM won't eventually make an appearance. Well. Don't you worry your pretty little heads off. P.S. I finished this while recovering from a wine-induced hangover. Take that as you will. **

_Night Lights_

She doesn't even bring that many clothes – just enough to fill one drawer, maybe two – but he still finds the tiny items in front of him completely baffling.

"David, I brushed my teeth!" he hears her call from the bathroom.

"Good girl," he responds as he closes the drawer and finishes tucking in the sheet on her brand new blue bedding.

He hears her little footfalls padding down the hallway, but when she appears in the doorway, he can't help but marvel at how half of her nightgown is absolutely soaking wet.

"What on earth happened to you? Did you go for a swim?"

"I couldn't reach the sink."

_Oh. _Of course she couldn't. She's five. "I'm sorry, squirt, you should have called me. I could have lifted you up. We'll get you a stool tomorrow." Again. Adjustments. "Let's find you something else to…" he trails off, noticing her staring at him. "What?"

"You called me 'squirt."

Uh oh. "… I did. Is that okay?"

She nods and bites her lip, trying to hide a smile and failing. "I like it."

"Okay." The leaden weight that had suddenly dropped into his stomach disappears and he claps his hands together. "You need dry pajamas."

"But I only have this." She tugs on the cotton edge, the merriment of the prior moment gone. What child only has one set of pajamas?

"Then tomorrow we'll go shopping and tonight, you can sleep in something of mine. Sound good?"

"Sounds great."

He gets her an old t-shirt from a college whose memories are hazy at best. He's not sure if that's evidence of a good time had or just proof that he's getting older, but she takes it from him reverently.

"I can sleep in this?"

"You can have it."

"To keep?"

"Forever."

Her tiny lips silently mouth 'wow' as she pulls the nightgown over her head. She's five, but he still turns around and counts to ten in his head, figuring that's plenty of time for her to change, and sure enough, he turns back to find her climbing up on the bed and settling against the pillows.

"All set?"

"Uh huh."

"Now remember," he begins as he pulls the covers back and she slips her feet beneath them, "I'm just across the hall. So if you get up in the middle of the night and can't find your way, just come wake me."

"I can't wake you."

"No?" He grins as he tucks the blanket up under her chin. "I'm pretty sure all you'd have to do is poke me."

"But… won't you be mad?"

"I'll never be mad when you wake me up," he says as he tries desperately to ignore the ache in his chest. "Never. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Light on or off?"

"Mmmm off." She burrows into the pillow and he wants to bend down and place a kiss on her head, but they're not ready for that. Not yet. Still, he reaches out to stroke her hair back and something catches his eye, stilling his hand.

"Where'd you get this?" he asks softly as he gently touches the worn wool.

"My parents gave it to me. My real parents." She's quiet, but he can hear the longing in her voice. No child should know that kind of pain.

"It beautiful." His finger traces the E-M-M-A sewn into the purple ribbon, thinking that had he had a daughter, 'Emma' probably would have been at the top of the list. "They must have cared a great deal to bundle you up in such a pretty blanket."

"They didn't care," she mutters and turns away from him. "They left me by a road."

And everything stops.

How could he be so stupid? He knew her backstory! Hell, he'd read it in the papers: _"Seven Year Old Boy Finds Baby on Side of Road"_…_"Still No Leads on Deadbeat Parents: Baby Emma Remanded to Foster System." _He had the headlines memorized by now; the story was awful, to be sure, but something about it struck a chord within him – more than any of the other horror stories that usually end up as front-page news.

"Emma, I – " He's not used to this yet, this comforting-other-people-thing. He sits on the bed with a heavy sigh and places his hand on her shoulder. "Hey, squirt, look at me."

She rolls over, but still keeps the covers tucked up to her nose.

"Your parents must have had a very good reason for leaving you like they did. Now, I don't know them, but I know _you. _Maybe not very well, yet, but enough. And I know that no one could leave you unless absolutely forced."

The blanket inches down her nose until he can see her mouth, but it's her eyes he's focused on as they slowly fill with tears. "You think so?"

"I know so." And this time, he doesn't stop himself as he leans down and places that feather-light kiss on her head. She needs it, needs the comfort and the reassurance.

And if he's completely honest with himself, he kind of needs it too.

xxxxxx

She's cold, but sweating. Scared, but unable to move.

There's a man at the end of the hall, a tall, dark, angry man. Which one, she's not sure (there've been many), but all she knows is that she needs to _run_. He begins to come towards her and her heart feels like it's about to pop out of her chest. She wants David. She wants to wake up. She wants to never see this man again –

She flies up in bed with a gasp and quickly realizes she's left herself uncovered. Unprotected. Pulling the blankets up over her head, she pants in the too-quiet room and tries to stifle a whimper.

"David," she whispers, utterly overwhelmed by the shadows in the corners of the room she hasn't memorized yet. "David?" Her voice won't go louder, terrified as she is that someone else will answer her call.

_He's across the hall. Across the hall. _She thinks she can make it, if she runs. She'll have to jump out of bed, because she's not sure what's beneath it. Something could grab her.

Her t-shirt is sticking to her but that's the least of her worries. He showed her the bedroom earlier; it's not far. She can definitely make it if she runs… on three… two… one.

She throws the covers back and bolts from the bed, heart pounding as her little feet carry her across the room, into the dark hallway, and through David's door. She throws herself onto the side of the bed, thankfully the side he isn't sleeping on, and immediately bursts into tears at the knowledge that she's finally, completely _safe. _

"Emma." David immediately sits up and scoops her into his arms, and she buries her face in his chest as she lets the tears go. "Hey, hey. I've got you. I've got you, sweetheart."

And she knows he does. She knows he won't let anything happen to her, not while his large hand is rubbing circles on her back. She's spent so much time trying to be strong, trying not to cry in front of _them, _that now – safe in his arms – she just can't stop.

He lets her go, gently rocking her back and forth as he murmurs things into her hair. She can't always understand what he says, not over her sobs, but she takes comfort in it, letting her cries calm down into hiccups.

"Was it a nightmare?" he eventually asks and she nods against his chest. "Wanna talk about it?"

"It was the bad man."

David doesn't ask who the bad man is and she's thankful because she doesn't want to talk about him. But he holds her a little tighter and she clings back just as fiercely.

"I won't let him get you."

She sniffles and marvels at the fact that he doesn't seem to care that her tears and snot are all over his t-shirt. "I know," she replies.

He places a kiss on her head, still rocking her, and reaches over to the bedside table and strikes a match.

"What're you doing?"

The candle's wick sparks and light dances on the walls. "It keeps the nightmares away."

"It does?"

"Yep. My mother used to light a candle for me whenever I would have a nightmare." He shifts her in his lap and leans back against the headboard, cocooning her safe in his arms. "Now you sleep, and I'll be right here the whole time."

"I can stay here?"

"If it's all right with you. I like the company." He smiles down at her and she knows he's letting her stay for her own sake, even though he's pretending like it's for his. But she doesn't argue; merely settles in deeper as the occasional hiccup still rocks her body.

His hand continues to rub circles on her back, and before she knows it, she's slipping off into a dreamless sleep.

xxxxxx

There's sunlight streaming in through the window and a foot sticking into his side.

David blinks his eyes open and looks down to find that Emma has turned sideways and is now lying horizontal across the bed, with one of David's pillows clutched in her little arms.

With a smile, he gently slides a hand under her back and another under her legs, righting her so she isn't so close to almost falling off the bed, and he settles back down to stare at her, because he's got nowhere else to be today.

The shelter had given him a week off to get settled. Even the school said that Emma didn't need to enroll until Monday so she could spend some time getting to know her new home.

_Home. _

Oddly, this house has never felt like his. The paint swatches, the dish patterns, even the damn windmill were all Kathryn's idea. And then she abandoned it. Abandoned them. He had been willing to try, to fight, because that's just what he did, but she gave up and he figured that anyone willing to give up that easily, wasn't worth the fight in the first place.

The windmill was obviously the first thing to go after she left.

But now, as he gently wraps this little girl's blond curl around his finger, he thinks that just maybe 'home' is exactly what this is. And this girl is absolutely, positively worth every bit of the fight.

Her brow creases and she stretches, nearly knocking him in the jaw with her tiny fist.

He chuckles as he lets her slowly awaken: her eyes blink open and she stares at the far wall for a moment, and he can clearly see the panic begin to settle in until her eyes find him and she calms.

"Hi."

"Hi," he responds. "What do you want to do today?"

Her eyes widen, as if no one has ever asked her what she wants to do, and she looks utterly overwhelmed by the possibilities.

"Tell you what. How about you and I go get some back to school supplies at the store on our way to Granny's for breakfast. Sound good?"

"School?"

Oh, right. Her schooling hasn't exactly been the most consistent. "Yes," he says, "the local kindergarten class is really looking forward to you joining."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. And we can go pick up some new notebooks and pencils for you on our way to Granny's famous banana pancakes."

A grin splits her face and she kicks the covers off, scrambling to brush her teeth and he wonders briefly if the offer of banana pancakes will get her out of bed this quickly every morning when school is her final destination.

xxxxxx

Graham stirs the spoon in his coffee counter-clockwise, watching as the milk turns the brown liquid beige.

"Anything else, sheriff?" Ruby leans over the counter, offering him a lovely view down her top, but he smiles a gentlemanly smile and keeps his eyes fixed on her face.

"No thanks, Ruby. I'm set for the moment."

She only looks slightly disappointed as she goes to check on Dr. Whale at the end of the counter.

The bell over the door rings and he turns to see David enter with bags in his right hand and Emma's palm in his left. Fatherhood suits him.

"Mornin', David."

"Hey, Graham," David responds as he leads Emma over to a booth and drops the bags on the seat.

Graham slides off the stool and takes his cup with him as he joins them at the table.

"Emma, I have something for you," Granny says from behind the counter, motioning the girl over. Emma looks up at David, the question clear in her eyes.

"Go ahead. I'll be here."

She bolts off and Graham chuckles. "She's adapting well. Better than I thought she would."

"Yeah," David says, his eyes still on the girl. "She had a nightmare last night."

Graham shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. "It's to be expected. New place and all."

David nods, but Graham can tell something else is bothering him. "She's been hurt."

"What?"

David finally meets his gaze and Graham is shocked at the anger and pain he finds there. "I saw her bruises. She's got them all down her back." He rubs his hands over his face and leans his elbows on the table. "They beat her, Graham."

Suddenly the coffee in front of him loses its taste. "They what?"

"The nightmare last night was about 'the bad man.' I didn't ask her who he was or what he did, but I could guess. I just – I don't know what to do."

Though Graham's head is spinning with the new information, he can't help but marvel at David's ability to plaster a smile on his face and be perfectly fine when Emma waves from behind the counter, though he's hurting so badly.

"She's taken to you fine enough."

David nods and swallows hard. "That's what worries me. I'm not a permanent solution."

And Graham knows what he means. He warned David in the beginning not to get too attached to the girl. He's her foster father, nothing more. But they didn't stop to consider what would happen if _she _got too attached to _him. _

"Look," Graham says as he reaches across and grabs David's forearm. "She's got you. You'd never hurt her and you'd never let anything happen to her. Now, tell me what's in the bags."

David smiles and shakes his head, knowing Graham is deliberating steering the conversation into lighter territory. "Nothing interesting. School supplies. A few notebooks, a Trapper Keeper."

"What the bloody hell is a Trapper Keeper?"

"Some sort of folder-thing, I don't know." David rests his forehead on the table and groans. "I don't remember back-to-school shopping being this difficult."

"It wasn't. Now there're a million options. And they're all hot pink."

David quirks an eyebrow and pulls a blue and black binder from the bag. "Leave it to Emma to go for Batman over the princess."

"My kinda girl," Graham says as he picks up his coffee mug once more.

"Look what Granny gave me!" Emma exclaims, running over as carefully as she can with a milkshake towering with whipped cream and a cherry.

"Oh boy," David says, as he slips a mock glare in Granny's direction. Emma will be hopped up on sugar for _hours. _

Graham wants to make a joke at his friend's expense, but the bell over the door rings again and he straightens up a little as Mayor Mills walks through the door.

He glances at David, but he's too immersed in wiping whipped cream off Emma's face to notice the new customer. Regina starts over to the counter, but pauses when Emma's loud giggles reach her ears.

Graham watches as she turns to their table, briefly making eye contact with him before her piercing gaze lands on the little girl in David's lap. Graham tenses, unsure why his instinct is to step in between them, blocking the girl from view, but it is.

Regina's face is a mask, but her eyes – her eyes are dark pools rippling with something resembling shock and concern. Emma is clearly an unexpected and unwelcome development.

Graham moves to stand, giving in to that instinct to _protect guard save._

But without a word, she turns and leaves, the bell over the door signaling her exit.


	4. Awakenings

**Aw shucks, guys. P.S. this is shaping up to be epic. I hope you're in it for the long haul. **

_Awakenings_

Six days. It had been six days since Emma had arrived at his door and since then, David had been schooled in many things, not the least of which was the art of the bedtime tuck-in, brushing hair without it hurting, and why some sugary cereals are better than others.

"_No, David, Fruit Loops! We gotta go with Fruit Loops!" _

One thing he had failed miserably at? Braiding hair. And of course Emma had let it slip that it had been attempted, giving Graham blackmail material to hold over David's head until his dying day.

"David!" Emma yells from the top of the stairs. "I can't find my shoes!"

"Which ones?" he calls up as he packs sandwiches into bags for their afternoon picnic.

"My sneakers!"

"In the back of your closet!" he calls up.

There's a moment's silence and then he hears a "Found them!" coupled with the familiar thumping of her trying to slip them on while balancing on one foot. It's one of the many noises he's come to love, along with the soft snore that escapes her when she sleeps on her back and the giggle that starts low and ends high, resulting in a full-on laughing fit.

He's memorizing her, slowly but surely, as she occupies a little bit more of his heart day by day.

He chuckles as he tosses two juice boxes into the canvas bag and bundles a blanket on top of the food. Real life intrudes tomorrow – he goes back to work and she starts school – so he'd like to savor this afternoon while he can. A picnic by the water seems like the perfect plan; it's October and getting cold. Soon the ducks will be long-gone and David will have to figure out what one does with a manic six-year-old indoors.

"Almost ready?"

"Uh huh!" She flies down the stairs at a speed that gives David a minor heart attack every time, terrified as he is that she'll end up doing a header to the first floor one of these days.

"Your jacket's hanging on the railing; go and grab it," he says as he slides his arms into his own.

She nods and disappears down the hall, but when she doesn't reappear a moment later, he pauses, only slightly concerned.

"Emma?"

"David!" she yells, but's he gotten to know her yells by now. This isn't her typical shout to get his attention – this is panicked.

"Emma!" he hurries into the hallway, lunch forgotten, to find her standing stock still in the middle, staring at the person hovering in their doorway. "Kathryn," he says.

Kathryn seems just as shocked as the rest of them, eyes focused on the little girl as if trying to figure out if she's seeing what she's actually seeing.

"Kathryn, what are you doing here?"

"I – " she pries her eyes from Emma and focuses on David. "I came to get the last few boxes I left."

"You should have called," he replies, annoyed that their afternoon has been tainted.

"Clearly," she tartly retorts, nodding towards Emma. The acknowledgement sends Emma running back to David where she presses into his leg and wraps her arms around his waist. "Cute," Kathryn says.

"Don't," he spits out and the venom in that short little word has Kathryn taking a step back. She will not ruin this for him. "Get what you came for and leave."

"You're not going to introduce me?"

"No," he flatly says. "You made your decision regarding her."

"I didn't think you'd still go through with it."

"What, because you weren't here? Then clearly you didn't know me very well at all."

Silence.

Emma's grip on him tightens and he brings a hand back to run through her hair. The grip loosens, but she still presses into his leg, as if trying to fuse herself to his body. Kathryn watches the small movement with a pained expression.

"Kathryn."

"Right," she snaps out of it. "Right… I'll just…" She makes a vague gesture towards the stairs and quickly retreats.

"Lock up when you're done. And please leave the key under the mat."

Her faltering steps are the only clue she heard him. Only when Kathryn's disappeared on the top landing does Emma tilt her head up and look at David with wide eyes.

"Was that your wife?"

David nods, because he can't protect her from the fact that not everything ends happily. "That was my wife."

He continues to stare at the open door a moment more, before shaking his head to clear it and placing a kiss in Emma's hair.

"Come on, squirt. Can't keep the ducks waiting."

xxxxxx

They stay later by the water than originally planned, and David ends up carrying a comatose Emma through the streets of Storybrooke on their way home. She's light – lighter than she should be, but the social worker did inform him that she would be underweight. The thought of her going to bed hungry makes him clench his jaw, but he remembers that she's safe – she's _here _– and he makes himself relax as he enjoys the cool fall night.

"Evening," a man says ahead of him, and David realizes as he passes under a street light that it's the pawnshop broker.

"Evening. Mr. Gold, right?"

"The one and only," he replies, donning his cane with a little flourish. "David Nolan, correct? I heard tell you were taking in a little girl."

David smiles down at the passed out child in his arms, unsure why this man makes him so uneasy. "Yeah. She clearly had a little too much excitement this afternoon."

Gold smiles. "That's what childhood is for."

"Have a nice evening," David offers, eager to get out of the awkward conversation. "I have to get Emma to bed."

"Emma." Gold repeats, something strange passing over his features. "What a lovely name."

David nods. "Wish I could take credit for it."

Gold's gaze darts between David and Emma rapidly, a smile lighting up his face. One that makes the hairs on the back of David's neck stand on end.

"You have a lovely night, Mr. Nolan."

"You, as well."

David turns and hikes Emma higher up on his hip, wondering what in the hell all _that _was about.

The encounter irks him for the next ten minutes, until he finally walks up the path to his house to find Graham sitting on the porch steps.

"Where the hell have you been? The beer's gone warm!"

"Shhh."

"Oh damn." Graham winces. "Sorry. I'm still gettin' used to you with a kid."

David arches an eyebrow. "Thanks."

"I like it. She suits you."

David can't help the smile that splits his face. He didn't say, "It suits you." Graham said, "_She _suits you." David can't help but agree.

And though Emma might be cramping boys' night, David knows that Graham means what he says, which more than makes up for any lack of tact the sheriff might exhibit. Graham had singlehandedly gotten him through his separation. Well, Graham and Granny. And Archie keeps eyeing him as if just waiting for the day David ends up on his couch.

He smiles as he lets his nose brush Emma's hair. She smells like vanilla. And he doesn't doubt that most of the town views her as some sort of third-life crisis.

Graham stands and brushes off his jeans, and David can't help but scoff at how he's dressed.

"Whoa, watch out world, he's out of his sheriff jacket."

Graham gives him a sarcastic smile and lifts his hem of his shirt to show the badge still clipped to his jeans.

"Are you ever off-duty?"

"No. So behave yourself."

"Says the man who showed up at my house at 7:30pm on a Sunday carrying what can only be at _least _two six packs."

Graham grins as he opens the bag. "Three."

"Jesus," David groans as he unlocks the door and leads the way into the house. "I have to be a respectable guardian and get her to school in the morning."

"Which I don't doubt you'll do with grace and aplomb," Graham says as he sets the bag down on the kitchen counter with a telltale _clink._

"I hate you," David mutters as he exits the kitchen to take Emma upstairs.

"You love me!" Graham calls after him and David snorts, causing Emma to shift in his arms.

"David?"

"Sorry, baby," he murmurs as he slowly takes the stairs. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay," she blearily replies as her arms tighten around his neck. "Are we home?"

"Yeah, we're home," he responds as he kisses her head. "Bedtime."

"Mm hm." She buries her face into his neck and he feels her breath even out against his skin.

And as he pulls the covers back and gently lays her down, he's pretty sure that he's never loved anyone more than he's loved her. And she's been here six days.

He's in so much trouble.

xxxxxx

"You want the IPA or the stout?" Graham asks as David comes into the kitchen and sits at the table.

"IPA."

"Good," Graham says as he holds out a light beer and pulls a Guinness from the bag. "More for me."

David wordlessly takes the proffered bottle and raises it to his lips.

Graham frowns. "I sense distress."

"Nah, it's… Mr. Gold, the pawnbroker. I ran into him tonight."

"What'd he want?" Graham's never been a fan of the pawnbroker. And for good reason. Someone's always coming to the station with a complaint against the small, wily man.

"Nothing, it was just… weird. He looked at Emma oddly."

"Oh boy," Graham chuckles. "If you're a second away from biting off Gold's head for looking at Emma wrong, what chance does her future boyfriend have?"

The comment makes David laugh, which was Graham's intent all along, so he leans back in his chair and takes a healthy swig of his beer.

"If I get to keep her that long."

"God you're good at depressing me," Graham complains. "Then adopt her!"

"Whoa, she's barely been here a week!"

"So? You like her. You want to keep her around."

"She's not a pet."

Graham laughs. "You've been spending too much time at the shelter." When David doesn't agree or refute, he continues, "What you need is a woman."

David nearly snorts his beer. "Perhaps I should divorce the one I'm already with."

"Eh, technicalities. Emma starts school tomorrow, yeah? Who knows? Maybe you'll find a cute teacher."

David shakes his head, and Graham really needs to take him out to the nearest bar and get him absolutely tanked. Hm. Maybe Ruby will babysit.

"Doubtful," David finally replies, downing the rest of his beer.

They catch the end of the baseball game, but Graham keeps one eye on David the entire time. His brow remains creased, as if he's trying to work something out that's just beyond his reach. Gold looking at Emma oddly reminds Graham of Regina's reaction to her yesterday, and as much as he wants to tell David, he doesn't want to burden the man further.

It was probably nothing, anyway.

xxxxxx

"Rise and shine, kiddo. Time for school."

Emma groans and rolls over, burying her face in the pillow. "No school."

David sits next to her on the bed and sighs; he definitely had her pegged as a non-morning person the moment she walked through his door.

"Don't you want to meet your classmates?"

She shakes her head and pulls the covers up, hiding under the blue bedding.

"But what about your Batman binder? It's gonna get very lonely if you don't write in it."

She emerges just long to give him a look, before disappearing again.

"Banana pancakes?" he tries.

She's silent for a moment, before her blond head peeks out from under the pillow. "With whipped cream?"

David narrows his eyes. "Just this once. Your first day of school is a special occasion."

She smiles and kicks the covers off as he stands and allows her to scoot off the bed.

He helps her get the temperature on the shower just right, before running downstairs and pouring some batter on the griddle. He made it before he woke her up, knowing he'd eventually have to pull out that particular trump card.

She eventually comes down wearing jeans and a green top, continuing to both impress and sadden him at her self-sufficiency. He brushes her hair and pulls it back, going for a simple ponytail that still manages to be crooked.

Emma sighs as she glances at him in the mirror. "You'll get it eventually. Practice makes perfect," she says, sounding wise beyond her years as she leaves him gaping.

Pancakes are had, and the green top becomes a red one when she gets more syrup on her clothes than in her mouth.

They're five minutes late and David curses himself for already messing up this relatively simple task. He has her mini-backpack slung over his shoulder and her hand in his as they try to find room 107, his frustration rising as he passes every room _but _107.

"Down the hall, second door on the right."

"Excuse me?" David asks as he spins around.

The young woman in front of him nods towards Emma. "She looks about five or six. I figured you were looking for the Kindergarten room."

"… I am. I'm also impressed that you can tell how old she is just by looking at her."

"Well, when you've been working with kids as long as I have, you get a pretty good sense." She smiles and David's just _gone._

"Hi," he chokes out after a moment that seems to last an eternity. "David Nolan." He holds his hand out, she takes it with a light blush, and he swears lightning just struck somewhere in the vicinity.

"Mary Margaret Blanchard. I teach fifth grade." She tucks a piece of short hair beyond her ear. "It's a pleasure to meet you, David."

And just like that, he's positively smitten.

"Likewise."

Somewhere, Graham is laughing.


	5. Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

**Ya'll. You're effing amazing. Each and every one of you. For serious. P.S. If you didn't see on my tumblr, I met Meghan Ory tonight (!). And let me tell you – she is jaw-droppingly beautiful. **

_Snails and Puppy Dog Tails_

David bounces on his toes, before leaning back against the side of his truck, crossing his arms, and trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

It's not working.

He doesn't know what the hell's come over him. Not at all. One minute he was freaking out because Emma was late to her first day of school and the next, he was shaking_ her_ hand and wishing he had a paper bag to breathe into.

Mary Margaret Blanchard.

This is not good. Not. Good. He isn't even divorced yet! And then there's the matter of Emma, the quasi-daughter in his life that he desperately wants to hold onto until the end of time. He's been so used to giving and giving to a wife who didn't return the favor that he's not quite sure what to do with the desire to drop down on his knees and offer it all up willingly.

The bell rings and he straightens, looking for a mop of curly blond hair (and if he's completely honest with himself, a closely cropped style of a darker hue, too).

"David!" Emma calls as she comes out of the door.

For a moment, David isn't sure if she actually sees him, or if she just knows all she has to do is call and he'll come running. He begins to walk toward the entrance, waving as he catches her eye, and that's all she needs to take off like a shot and hurl herself into his arms.

He laughs as he picks her up, hiking her up on his hip. "I take it you had fun?"

"SO much fun!"

"So you think maybe tomorrow, you'll get out of bed on time?"

She scrunches her face. "We'll see."

He chuckles as he puts her down and takes her backpack, turning to lead her to the car.

"I take it you found it."

He stops dead, because after only two minutes' conversation, he'd know that voice anywhere. He turns and, sure enough, there she is, smiling brightly as she clutches a few folders to her chest. For a moment, he's pretty sure he forgets how to breathe.

"We did," he finally manages. "And it sounds like it was a successful first day."

Emma nods enthusiastically at his side and Mary Margaret laughs. "Good. Actually, David, I'm glad I caught you."

He inhales sharply.

"You work at the animal shelter, right?"

Does he? He's not sure if he remembers his own name. "Uh huh."

"Well," Mary Margaret continues, oblivious to his inner identity crisis, "I was interested in maybe bringing in an animal or two to show the class. Maybe have them take care of it for a little bit. Do you think you could help me with that?"

He'd help her move the moon if he could. "Of course," is what he says instead, smiling and nodding his head just as enthusiastically as Emma did. The little girl gripping his hand and lazily swinging it back and forth is the only thing keeping him tethered to the here and now.

"Great! Maybe I could come by tomorrow after school? I could even bring Emma over so you wouldn't have to come pick her up."

David glances down at Emma and she smiles brightly. "That good with you, squirt?"

"Uh huh."

David moves his gaze to the woman he swears he's known a lot longer than 24 hours.

"Then tomorrow it is."

xxxxxx

_Thump, thump, thump. _

Graham groans as he blindly reaches for the watch on his nightstand and squints one eye in an attempt to see the time.

_6:37pm. _

He had worked the nightshift last night and passed out shortly after 5pm, relishing the feel of his sheets and the softness of his pillow. All he wanted to do was sleep until dawn, but –

_Thump, thump, thump. _

So much for that idea. He stumbles out of bed and promptly trips over a discarded pair of boots, catching himself on the dresser and flicking a light on in the hallway.

_Thump, thump, thump. _

"Christ, what?!" He yells as he swings the door open, only to be met with David's tortured face as he carries a pajama-clad Emma in his arms.

"I'm in trouble."

Graham suppresses the urge to whine. "Trouble' as in 'You need to arrest me right now and then post my bail?' Or 'trouble' as in 'I'm emotionally unstable and need your advice?"

"The latter."

"Thank god," Graham groans as he opens the door further, allowing David to brush past him. "I don't _have _the money to post your bail."

"What's bail?" Emma asks.

"Nothing," David and Graham reply simultaneously.

Emma raises an eyebrow as if to say _Really? _but she lets it slide as David places her on the floor. She's wearing pajama pants, rain boots, and David's old college t-shirt, which falls somewhere past her knees. Graham honestly isn't sure who chose that particular outfit: the adult or the child.

He rubs his eyes and pours Emma a glass of juice, which he hands her with a wink. She smiles widely at him as she takes it and allows herself to be pulled onto David's lap as he settles into a chair.

"Did you two eat?" Graham asks, trying to remember his role as host even though he's pretty sure the only items his fridge contains are stale milk and beer.

"Yeah, we ate. And…" David pulls a Tupperware out and places it in front of Graham. "I knew you were on the night shift. I figured you hadn't."

"Oh bless you," Graham groans, grabbing a fork and digging in, not even bothering to heat it up. "You're cooking's improved," he says around a mouthful of pasta.

David raises an eyebrow and mutters a thanks, but Graham is too busy staring at the expression on his friend's face and how it's almost identical to the one his foster daughter wore just moments ago.

Weird.

"So, what's this trouble you've gotten yourself into?"

"So… there's this teacher…" David begins, but Graham bursts out laughing before he can utter another word.

xxxxxx

The bells rings, signaling the end of another day and Mary Margaret gathers her books and pencils, calling out a "No running!" just for good measure.

The kids wave their goodbyes, one even drops off a pear for her, and then the doors close, leaving her in silence.

It always seems she's in silence.

She sighs and slides the tests she has to grade into her bag, swinging it over her shoulder and setting off towards the kindergarten classroom.

"Bye, Miss Blanchard," a girl waves as she jogs down the hall to catch up with her friends.

"Bye, Paige," Mary Margaret replies as she turns the knob to the room where, hopefully, her charge is waiting for her.

Sure enough, the door swings back, revealing the small blond haired girl sitting at a desk, idly swinging her legs back and her. She perks up immensely upon Mary Margaret's arrival.

"Hi, Miss Blanchard."

"Hello, Emma," she replies, nodding to the teacher waiting that she could take it from there. "All set?"

"Uh huh," Emma says as she hops out of her seat and swings her bag over her shoulder. "I haven't been to the animal shelter, yet," she whispers as if divulging a big secret. "I'm really excited."

"Yeah?" Mary Margaret replies, leaning down so they're nose-to-nose. "Me too." She holds her hand out, the little girl takes it, and Mary Margaret has absolutely no idea why her stomach seems to jolt at the touch.

The sun is bright as they exit the school and Mary Margaret savors it, knowing it'll probably be one of the last nice days they have before winter sets in. Emma swings her hand back and forth as they stroll the few blocks to the shelter, animatedly retelling the highlights of her day.

"… and I don't like math, but then we read a story, so it was okay."

"Do you like to read?"

"I do," Emma responds as they cross a street. "I didn't get to read much at my old home, so I'm still not very good at it."

"I could help you, if you'd like."

"Really?"

Mary Margaret nods, finding immeasurable joy at putting a smile on that child's face.

"That would be great!"

"Maybe we should ask your fa – uh, I mean David. Maybe we should ask David first."

Emma's features immediately go tight, and Mary Margaret thinks it's not right for a child of five to have perfected the art of the fake smile.

"You like David, don't you," she offers, thinking that perhaps the girl fakes it because no one has ever bothered asking her why she feels the need to.

Emma is silent for a moment before finally offering a careful nod. "I do. A lot."

"He seems like a good man."

"The best. He makes banana pancakes," is her solemn reply and Mary Margaret has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. But why shouldn't banana pancakes be the barometer by which all good parents are measured? Surely care and love must go into every batch.

"I'll have to try them one day."

And Emma looks at her with such conviction and not a little bit of mischief when she replies, "Don't worry. You will."

Mary Margaret stands in front of the shelter slightly stunned as the little girl runs ahead. Had she been so transparent? After all, it's not every day that she calls out to random strangers. Initiating conversation is not exactly one of her fortes; but she saw him standing there looking so lost and she just _had _to speak to him. Her body, her mind, her very soul was giving her no other option.

She clears her throat and follows the girl through the door, and immediately the potent smell of dog food, shampoo, and birdcage shavings hits her.

"There's my girl," David says as he comes around the counter and swings Emma into his arms. "And how was the second day?"

"Great!"

"Great? Better than the first?"

"Uh huh."

"And how was math?"

"Bleh," Emma replies and David chuckles, kissing her on the cheek and setting her back down on the ground.

"Miss Blanchard, thanks so much for bringing her."

"Mary Margaret, please," she says, taking the hand he's outstretched to her.

The minute their palms touch, something… _odd _… happens. Not bad, just not quite right. Or maybe too right. She can't really tell at the moment. David seems to be suffering from the same confusion and it takes them each a moment to release the other's hand.

"David, do you have puppies?" Emma tugs on his shirt, effectively snapping whatever trance Mary Margaret had just gotten herself into.

"Uh… yeah," he shakes his head, sparing a brief side-glance to her, "of course we do." He gets his energy back as he claps his hands and stares at her once more. "Mary Margaret, did you have any ideas about what kind of animal you'd like to look at?"

"Oh gosh, something small," she blushes under his intense gaze.

"A hamster!" Emma cries out, happy to contribute to the conversation.

Mary Margaret scrunches up her nose. "Maybe something not-so-smelly."

"A cat?" Emma tries again.

"Two of my students are allergic."

"They do make small dogs, you know," David says with a wink.

And Mary Margaret's knees nearly buckle.

"Small dogs are good," she finally squeaks out, allowing him to lead the way into the back.

Emma is quick to plaster herself to a cage with a few golden retriever puppies stumbling about inside and by the time the adults make it to her, she's practically _begging _David to let them out.

"Hold your horses, squirt," he says as he pulls out the keys. "Now remember, we're here to help Miss Blanchard pick out a pet, okay?"

Emma nods even though her eyes don't leave the puppies in front of her.

David shakes his head and chuckles. "Go ahead and take a look around. She'll be occupied for a while."

Mary Margaret starts down the corridor lined with cages, listening to the nips and yelps and barks that surround her.

"Is this a temporary adoption, or a more permanent thing?" David asks as he falls in step with her.

"You know, I'm honestly not sure," she replies, pausing in front of a tiny French bulldog. "I guess I should start with temporary. Is that allowed?" She turns, but David isn't watching her. His eyes are on Emma.

Oh. Adoption. Temporary. Permanent. Of _course _his thoughts are on the girl. Silly Mary Margaret.

"Can I see him?" she asks as she places a hand on David's arm, snapping his attention immediately back to her.

"Of course."

A few moments later and her arms are full of wiggling puppy, with a scrunched up face, big ears, and a cold nose. He's quite possibly the most adorable thing she's ever seen – save for the man standing to her immediate left.

"What's his name?"

"Rory."

"Rory," she repeats. "I like it. How old is he?"

"Four months. He was found in the woods with no collar."

"You're a baby, aren't you," she coos and is rewarded with a nice lick to the cheek. "It looks like we have a winner," she laughs, tilting her chin up so the puppy kisses don't get her square on the lips.

"All right, then," David replies warmly, shutting the cage and staring at her once more. "Can you handle him for a moment, while I make sure Emma isn't hiding puppies in my car?"

"Sure," she laughs as David jogs down the corridor. She follows at a slower pace and nearly bumps right into him as she turns the corner. She moves to ask what's wrong, why he's stopped dead in his tracks, but then she looks around his shoulder to find Emma sitting cross-legged on the floor with three separate golden retriever puppies climbing on top of her. Her giggles bounce off the cream-colored walls and fluorescent lights.

It's one of the best sights Mary Margaret has ever seen.

She glances sideways at David to find him staring at Emma as if she holds his entire world, and Mary Margaret is pretty sure the girl actually does. He has a soft smile on his face and he leans against the wall, his hand unconsciously moving towards his chest.

It must hurt, having so much love slam into you at once.

She's pretty sure she knows the feeling, just from watching him watch her.

After all, it only took a puppy, a girl, and a smile for David Nolan to walk away with her heart.

xxxxxx

This is unacceptable.

And Regina doesn't handle 'unacceptable' particularly well.

She watches from her car as David Nolan pulls up in front of Mary Margaret's apartment, the brat sitting between them. A five-year-old in the front seat. Well done, Charming.

Mary Margaret glances down and gets out gingerly, holding a small dog in her arms, and Regina does her best not to sneer. Typical.

It takes her a moment to realize she's not the only one admiring the family reunion; turning to her right, she finds Gold standing on the sidewalk watching David wave to Mary Margaret with an unreadable expression on his face.

She moves to put her car in gear, but he begins walking towards David's truck and, as he passes her, he winks.

There is a girl in town, Snow White and Prince Charming are riding in cars together, and Rumpelstiltskin is _winking _at her.

Regina is nearly vibrating with anger as she throws the gearshift into 'drive' and squeals the tires in a u-turn.

Yes, this is entirely unacceptable.

xxxxxx

"Mr. Nolan."

David starts, turning away from Mary Margaret's door and facing the man standing at his passenger side window.

"Mr. Gold." He tries to keep the uneasiness from his tone, but at Gold's indulgent smile, he's pretty sure he failed.

"And you must be Miss Swan."

Emma glances at David quickly before nodding.

"Welcome to Storybrooke," he says amiably, focusing back on David. "She has your eyes."

David scoffs. "That's not possible."

"Isn't it?" Gold smiles. "No I suppose not," he says in a way that implies he doesn't suppose at all.


	6. Voices

**This is going out to the anon reviewer who left such an amazingly long and kickass review, my email had to truncate it due to size. Those are my favorites. P.S. I took a slight detour to clicheville and I do not care. #judgeaway xo**

_Voices_

Regina taps one perfectly manicured nail against the recently waxed surface of her desk and gnaws on the end of a pencil, glaring at no one in particular as she stares out of her office window.

Something is off. And in this town, something is _never _off. It runs like clockwork – if only she had a working clock for proof. The old lady and the wolf argue over eggs, Snow White is meek and apologetic, the cricket takes the dog for a walk.

And then there's Charming. Charming, who up until a couple of weeks ago had been trapped in a loveless marriage without the courage to break it off. But then… talk of a foster child started. And it all spiraled out of control.

"It seems I was two decades off of my prior calculation," a voice says and she looks up to find Mr. Gold framed in the doorway.

"What calculation?" Regina snaps.

"Nothing," he replies, but the look on his face says it's most definitely not nothing.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Gold?" Her tone is weary. She just wants to go home and consume an entire bottle of wine while soaking in a bubble bath. Gold does not factor into any of those plans.

"Just thought I'd pop in," he says brightly. Which is odd – the man is never spontaneous nor is he bright.

"For…" she prompts, not liking the fact that he takes the liberty to come around her desk and glance out the window.

"Charming, aren't they," he says, nodding to where David Nolan carries the brat to his car.

At first, she thinks it odd; it's not the end of the school day yet.

But then his word choice echoes in her ears and everything else _stops._

Her thumping pulse is all she can hear as Gold watches her carefully. "What's your name?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your name, what is it?"

He scoffs, looking offended. "Am I that forgettable? You sure know how to bruise a man's ego, Madame Mayor."

"What. Is. Your. Name?" Her hands are shaking and she's thisclose to snapping both the pencil and his neck in two.

"Mr. Gold, of course," he simply replies.

"Your _real_ name."

"Every moment I've spent on this earth, that's been my name." He smiles, raising an eyebrow; though whether it's a taunt or a truth, she's not quite sure.

"But what about moments spent elsewhere?"

"This is quite the game you've spun."

_Spun. Charming. Prior_ _Calculation._

Something must pass across her face, because Gold smiles and tips his cane to her, his job apparently done.

By the time she gathers herself, he's nearly sauntered out the door.

"The child?" Regina asks, fear tingeing her tone. "Who is the child?!"

Gold stops at the doorway, spinning with a little flourish. "Oh I think you know, _dearie_."

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret dumps her groceries on the counter and attempts to catch the oranges that roll out of her bag. She saves all but one, and it falls to the floor with a dull thud, but she picks it up and brushes it off, placing it reverently in the bowl of fruit on the middle of her table. No harm done.

The phone is shrill when it rings, and despite living in this apartment for god knows how many years, she still jumps every time the sound breaks the silence.

"Hello?"

"… Um, hi."

"David?" Her heart immediately jumps into her throat and she reaches for the edge of the counter, just to have something to lean against.

"… Yeah. Listen, I'm really sorry to bother you – "

"No, it's fine! I mean – I mean it's not a bother. Not at all." Get a grip, Mary Margaret.

"Well the thing is… how high is too high of a fever when you're five?"

That might have been the most adorable phrasing of a basic question Mary Margaret's ever heard. "Oh no, is Emma sick?"

"Or she's turned into the girl from The Exorcist. To be perfectly honest, it's scaring the living daylights outta me."

Mary Margaret has started pacing and only when she feels a tug does she realize that she's completely knotted herself up in the phone cord.

"Having a sick child can be scary, but I'm sure she'll be fine." She inhales deeply and bites her lip, not really believing the words are about to leave her mouth. "Do you… do you want me to come over?"

He's silent and it's the most terrifying three seconds of her life.

"Would you mind?"

"Not at all!" she replies and she sincerely hopes she didn't come off as enthusiastic as she felt. There is sick kid in the picture, after all. Mustn't get too excited.

"Great. Um, the address is 216 Hollyhock St."

"Great," she says. "I'll be right over."

"Great."

That was far too many 'greats,' she thinks as she hangs up the phone and attempts to untangle herself. Though she had been missing Rory, she's suddenly grateful that the puppy is spending the night with one of her students.

She quickly gathers what materials she thinks Emma might need and briefly considers changing her outfit, but no – that's ridiculous – so she settles for the gray skirt and light blue top she's already wearing.

It takes her roughly seven minutes to get from her front door to his, and it opens before she can even raise her hand to knock.

"You are a lifesaver," he says, looking pale and not a little ill himself.

"Are you okay?"

"I just – I want her to be okay."

"David," she laughs lightly as she places a hand on his arm. "Kids get sick. I see it every day. It's what happens. She's going to be _fine_. I promise."

He looks unconvinced, but slightly less panicked at her words. With a nod, he opens the door further and beckons her in, promptly taking her coat and the bag from her hand.

"I just brought some stuff: Vicks VapoRub, children's cough medicine the school nurse gave me a while back…"

He looks a little overwhelmed, but she's got to cut him some slack. Most parents have years of dealing with mini-crises – weaning, teething, toilet training – so by the time they get to a five-year-old with a fever, it's a cakewalk.

But not for David. This is a crash course in parenting.

"How about you take me to the patient."

He nods and begins leading her to the living room. "I figured it would be easier to have her near the kitchen. And the phone. And if she wanted to watch TV. And – "

"It's a good idea," she quickly says, saving him from himself. "Good idea."

He moves aside and she finally catches a glimpse of Emma, curled up on the couch under what looks like five blankets. She's pale and sweating, yet shivering; despite what Mary Margaret says about kids being sick all the time, she can't help the spike of panic she feels at seeing the girl looking so fragile.

"Hey, sweetheart," she whispers, the endearment falling easily as she kneels next to the couch.

Emma blinks her eyes open and smiles. "Are you here to read to me?"

"I'm here to do whatever you want me to do."

"I like reading," she says, before promptly launching into a coughing fit. David rushes forward and helps Emma sit up, rubbing a hand over her back and murmuring soothing things in her ear.

Mary Margaret can't help but hurt for the little girl, and she finds herself squeezing Emma's leg beneath the mountain of blankets.

The little girl is holding onto David's shirt like a lifeline, so he perches on the edge of the couch and scoops her into his arms.

"I know it hurts," he whispers as he places a kiss to her head. "I'm sorry. I wish I could make it all go away."

David makes eye contact with her and Mary Margaret smiles softly, hoping to convey all her confidence in him in that one tiny gesture. It seems to work, because he returns it, and she stands.

"She probably needs fluids. Do you have any chicken broth?"

"Yeah, in the cabinet above the stove. Here, I'll – "

"No, no. I've got it," she insists, halting his attempt to get off the couch. "You stay here."

He looks apologetic, but the expression is wiped off his face when Emma settles back against him, gripping his shirt once more and sighing into his chest. David looks like it's Christmas come early.

Mary Margaret starts towards the kitchen, but stops abruptly when she sees a framed photo above the mantle. It's of David with a smile she knows is not genuine (_how_ on earth does she know that?), with his arm around a blond woman who beams at the camera.

"Everything all ri…" he trails off as he cranes his neck to see what she sees. "Oh. That's um…"

"Your wife," she says flatly.

"My wife," he confirms and it's like a dagger through her heart. "Soon to be ex."

"Ah." It doesn't quite make her feel better. She was a fool to come.

"We um… disagreed on some major life decisions." His voice is more sorrowful than she's ever heard and she turns to find him staring at Emma once more.

It's not hard to deduce which life decisions those were.

"I'll be right back with some chicken broth," she whispers, putting on a smile that's even faker than the one in his picture.

And when she gets to the kitchen, she crumbles, unsure why she should care so much about a man she's known for so little.

xxxxxx

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

That's what's going through David's head as Mary Margaret disappears into the kitchen. He doesn't quite know what he's feeling, but he knows he probably shouldn't be feeling it. Not while still technically married. Not while a wedding ring sits in his bedside drawer, a ring whose tan line still stains his fourth finger.

"David?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Can you sing?"

Huh. Sing. He's never had that request before, but he's pretty sure he'd do anything Emma asked of him.

"Uh, sure."

A song comes to mind from a movie he thinks he remembers watching as a child, but the plot points are sketchy at best. Still, he remembers the tune well enough and he hums it in her ear.

"_A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain__ / __Softly blows o'er lullaby bay.__ / __It fills the sails of boats that are waiting-__ / __Waiting to sail your worries away."_

"I love that song," Mary Margaret murmurs and David glances up to find her leaning against the doorframe. She looks better than she did when she fled the room moments ago, but he still hates himself a little bit for putting that shattered look on her face.

"I can't remember the rest," he quietly replies.

"It'll come back to you," she reassures.

And for some reason, he thinks she's talking about more than just the lyrics.

xxxxxx

The microwave dings but just as she's about to turn and retrieve the broth, Emma gets sick all over pretty much everything. David sits there, slightly stunned, but then Emma bursts out crying and he's immediately in placating mode, kissing her hair and telling her it's completely fine.

"So perhaps the broth was a bad idea," she says as she immediately comes forward and folds the soiled blanket up.

"Perhaps," he says against Emma's hair, gently rocking her back and forth. He needs to change his shirt, but he sits there anyway, not moving until the little girl is calmed. "I know it's not fun, but it won't last, sweetheart."

"What was her last temperature?"

"101.4."

Mary Margaret scrunches her face; it's definitely higher than she'd like, but maybe they can get Emma to keep down some medicine.

Emma's eyes eventually close and her breathing evens, and David scoots out from under her, gingerly walking to the kitchen and pulling off his shirt as he does so.

Mary Margaret tries to remember how to breathe.

"It's gotta be some kind of parental rite of passage, huh?" he throws over his shoulder as he digs through a pile of clean laundry, looking for a shirt.

"You can cross it off the bucket list," she manages, trying _oh so hard _not to focus on the muscles in his back.

"Mary Margaret Blanchard, always looking at the silver lining," he says with a grin, turning with a t-shirt in hand.

She gasps, but for once, not because of his incredibly toned physique. No, what makes her breath catch in her throat are the scars that mar his torso. One slashes horizontally from his sternum to his shoulder, one is small and circular, meeting just where the long one ends, and the last is shorter but deeper. Angier. Almost… fatal.

She reaches out without realizing and quickly recoils, images flashing before her eyes as the world suddenly goes off kilter.

"_No, No, No. Please. Please come back to me." Lips press together, but eyes do not open. _

"Mary Margaret?"

"_She got away. You're going to lose. I know that now. Good will always win." She cradles his cheek, even as he stains her nightgown red. _

"Mary Margaret!"

She's jolted back to find David standing eye to eye with her, cupping her face in his large hands and looking more than a little concerned.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah," she clears her throat and attempts to swallow around the rather large lump that's lodged itself there. "I'm fine. Zoned out for a moment, sorry."

He continues to eye her warily, but releases her face. She tries not to whimper.

"Where'd, um, where'd you get them?" she quietly asks, almost afraid of the answer.

He glances down at his chest and runs a finger along one, then the other. "Car accident. A while ago. I don't remember much of it."

She nods and tries not to imagine him surrounded by mangled steel. She's not sure why her emotions concerning him veer towards the extreme. It's like it's impossible to feel just a little bit of anything when it comes to David Nolan. She feels a lot. Everything, in fact – all at once and it's exhausting and confusing and humbling and thrilling.

"You sure you're okay?" He's slipped his shirt on and she's surprised to find she's actually glad.

She's not sure she could look at those scars for much longer. They bring images to her mind and a voice…

"_I don't want to do this." _

"_It has to be you." _

"_I'm not leaving you." _

A voice that is hers, and yet… not.


	7. Contingencies

_Contingencies_

This is not exactly how she planned on the evening going.

David's concerned; she knows he is. She can feel his gaze follow her about the room, even as he keeps his attention solely focused on the little girl sipping broth in front of him. It's an impressive feat of multitasking, but for the first time since meeting him, Mary Margaret wishes he would just ignore her for a moment.

Her head is still swimming with… well. Whatever _that _was. And she can't think about it without nearly vomiting from the pain.

"_No, No, No. Please. Please come back to me." _

The words alone are a sucker punch to her heart, and her arms automatically wrap around herself as if holding her body together. It had felt _so _real. So_ agonizing_.

She can see his lifeless face before her as clearly as she can see him now, making a goofy expression at Emma and garnering laughter in return.

But that's not what she saw before. She saw his pale white skin and his red, red blood. She saw the sword lying just a few feet away and the soft smiling gracing his face. He had won.

Whatever he had done, he won.

"Mary Margaret?"

"Yeah?" she jumps at his voice to find him looking at her curiously. She can see the underlying question in his eyes, but she plasters a smile on her face and tries to look as sane as possible.

She briefly wonders if he knows her smiles as well as she knows his.

"Her fever's down," he says, and only then does she realize he's holding a thermometer. "99.8."

"Great!" This time, she doesn't have to fabricate her happiness. Her eyes fall to Emma who does indeed look like she has more color and energy. "How do you feel?"

"Super!" Emma replies, even though she can barely sit up without David's help. He chuckles and places a kiss on her head as Emma leans into him. Mary Margaret desperately wishes she had a camera.

Then something occurs to her and she freezes. She's been in that position before, next to David, holding his hand. She was in pain. She was suffering. But he kissed her temple, whispered against the shell of her ear, and gave her all of the confidence in the world.

The image is blurry and she can't quite make out the details, but it feels as though it happened only yesterday.

Odd.

xxxxxx

She has a strange look on her face, like she's trying to remember something just out of her reach, and David moves to stand, but Emma's grip on his shirt is fierce and he falls back down next to her on the couch with a laugh.

"All right, all right."

She grins and cuddles back into his side, reveling in her victory.

"You know, squirt, I'm being a terrible host. I haven't even gotten Miss Blanchard a glass of water."

Mary Margaret smiles and shakes her head. "I know my way around your kitchen by now," she says and David's heart skips a beat. He wishes she knew her way around his house, his heart, his life.

"Still," he replies, placing a placating kiss on Emma's head. "I promise I'll be right back."

The girl pouts and some invisible tether almost chains him to the couch at that one look.

"Aw, come on. Don't do that to me."

She pouts harder.

Mary Margaret's chuckle breaks through the spell that Emma's put him under. "She has you absolutely wrapped around her finger."

Finally he stands and Emma grins. "Yeah, and she knows it," he mutters, winking at the girl as he moves towards the kitchen. "Please forgive my horrible manners, can I get you anything to eat or drink? It's almost dinner time, you must be starving."

He can see the slight blush in her cheek, but before she can answer, the phone rings and David immediately curses whomever's on the other end.

"Hello?"

"I need your help," Graham's voice says, sounding all business and David immediately straightens.

"What can I do?"

"I know Emma's sick, and normally I wouldn't ask, but there's a break in in process at Gold's. I need an extra hand."

David glances at Mary Margaret, his face apologetic even as hers registers the seriousness on his. "I'm on my way." He hangs up and opens his mouth to explain, but she holds her hands up.

"Whatever it is, go. I'll watch Emma."

"I'm sorry."

"David, go. Really, it's fine. We'll have girl-time."

He feels better at that, but he had promised her he'd be right back. She's been here less than two weeks, and he's already breaking promises.

He hurries into the living room and places a kiss on her head. "Baby, I gotta run and help Graham with something."

He's bracing himself to have to walk away from her pleading eyes and wavering bottom lip, but she doesn't pout, as if she knows the severity of the situation.

"Come back soon," is all she says and he silently thanks her for it.

"I will."

Mary Margaret offers him a reassuring smile as he grabs his coat and hurries towards the door.

"Be careful," she calls when he turns the knob and he stops, giving her a look that he thinks he's given her before.

A reassuring, loving glance, just before running headfirst into danger.

xxxxxx

He figures the sheriff will forgive him for breaking every single one of Storybrooke's speed limits as he drives to the pawnshop. Graham's car is already idling a block away, though the driver's side door is open and the headlights are off. David's heart lurches at the thought of his friend in danger and he pulls up behind the cruiser, quietly closing the door and sprinting around the back of the shop.

He doesn't make it very far though, as he's tackled while turning the corner, hitting the ground with a hard thud.

"Jesus, I thought you were him," Graham mutters, while gingerly getting off David.

"_You _called _me_," David reminds him, groaning slightly and thanking the gods that Graham is as slight as he is. "I think you bruised a few ribs."

"You'll live. Where's Emma?"

"Mary Margaret is watching her."

"The school teacher? Nice."

"Shut up."

A crash is heard inside the shop and immediately both men tense. Graham pulls his gun from his holster, and David immediately questions how smart it was for him to join. He has someone depending on him now. It's not just himself he's putting in danger – if something happens to him, Emma will be taken away and then what?

He shakes the morose thoughts from his mind, focusing on Graham's attempt to jimmy the back door open without making a sound.

"How many in there?"

"The caller thought one."

David nods and wishes he had something a little more substantial to defend himself with than the flashlight Graham pushes into his hand.

"Don't do anything dumb."

And David stops, because Graham's never said anything like that to him before. He's helped the sheriff out in situations like this – being a police force of one is not exactly ideal – but never has his friend verbally forbade him from doing anything rash. Until now.

Until Emma.

David nods, ignoring the fact that his throat has gone tight and follows Graham into the building as the door finally swings quietly back.

They tiptoe through the office, but don't make it very far beyond that. Upon entering the actual stop, Graham is tackled to the ground and the intruder quickly stands and rounds on David, attempting to hit him in the head with what looks like the butt of a sword.

David dodges and grabs the nearest object. He parries another swipe, finding fate to have a sense of humor when he realizes the object in his hand is a sabre.

He blocks a few more hits, spins, and knocks the sword from the intruder's hand before sweeping the blunt side of his sabre under the thief's legs and landing him flat on his back.

He stands, his reflexes finally relinquishing their hold on his body and takes a look at his handiwork. Graham is dumbstruck as he gapes at his friend.

"Where the bloody hell did you learn to do that?"

"I have absolutely no idea," David replies, looking at the sword like it had sprung to life and acted of its own accord.

The intruder attempts to get up, but Graham is quick to pounce on him and wrestle him into a pair of handcuffs. "What's your name?"

The man groans out, "Jefferson" and Graham looks questioningly at David who shrugs as if to say _'Never heard of him.'_

"And what the hell do you so desperately need from Gold's pawnshop?" the sheriff asks as Jefferson struggles.

"It's for you!" he cries, trying to make eye contact with David. "I was getting it for _you_! It's yours!"

"Mine? What's mine?" David has yet to lower his weapon, and Graham shakes the man in order to speed his reply.

"There," Jefferson groans. "Over there. The mobile."

David starts to chuckle, thinking it positively ridiculous that anything in here could possibly belong to him, but the chuckle slowly fades as he follows Jefferson's gaze.

"That's not…" He trails off and moves toward it as if hypnotized. "That's…" He reaches a shaky hand out and gently touches the foot of one of the glass unicorns. "Mine."

"David?" Graham asks, concern and confusion in his tone.

"This is mine," David whispers, unhooking the mobile and holding it preciously in front of him.

"Do you remember?!" Jefferson cries, struggling once again in Graham's arms.

David blinks as he turns away from the mobile and stares the mad man in the face.

"Remember what?"

xxxxxx

Emma is well enough to sit at the kitchen table and nibble on some toast as Mary Margaret prepares an easy pasta dish. David will probably be hungry when he gets home and she can't help the warm feeling she gets in the pit of her stomach at the thought of how _domestic _this all is.

She's sipping tea and playing I Spy with Emma in an effort to keep her mind off the fact that David is doing something potentially dangerous with the sheriff. She doesn't know Graham well, but they're friendly. It's strange, though, that in all her time here she's never bumped into David before. Never even passed him on the street or seen him from afar in Granny's.

But then again, her life is spent at home, the school, and not really anywhere else. Until Emma, David had no reason to venture to either.

"Miss Blanchard! It's your turn!"

"Oh," Mary Margaret jumps. "Right, of course." She bites her lip and runs a cursory glance around the kitchen, her gaze landing on an obviously homemade magnet on the refrigerator. Its prominence dead center, pinning up Emma's school schedule makes Mary Margaret's heart swell. "I spy with my little eye something blue."

She glances over her shoulder to find the girl squinting adorably as she surveys the kitchen. "The towel?" she asks, pointing to the cloth that's draped over Mary Margaret's shoulder.

"No."

"Hmm… my plate?"

"Nope."

Suddenly she gasps and points to the fridge. "My magnet!"

"Yep," Mary Margaret grins, giving in to the infectiousness of Emma's enthusiasm.

"I made that special for David."

"Did you? At school?"

"Uh huh." And suddenly, she asks a question that nearly knocks Mary Margaret flat. "Are you gonna marry David?

She chokes on her tea, coughing and spluttering while trying to catch her breath. "Uh no," she manages. "David and I aren't… we aren't…" she trails off as Emma looks expectantly up at her. "We aren't dating."

"Oh. Well, I hope you do. I like you."

Mary Margaret's cheeks warm. "I like you too."

"There's a boy named Bobby in my Kindergarten class who wants to date me. But I punched him in the face and got a time-out."

"Oh. And how did David react?"

"He gave me a high five," Emma states matter-of-factly. Then, after a moment of consideration, she says, "Please don't punch David."

Mary Margaret laughs. "I promise I won't."

Emma goes back to her toast, as if the past five minutes have not completely rocked Mary Margaret's world. Marrying David? Where on earth had that come from? She's been in the picture for all of a day! They haven't… she doesn't…

It's all incredibly confusing.

"Miss Blanchard!"

"Yes?"

Emma is giving her an adorably impatient glance. "I spy with my little eye something green!"

She searches the kitchen with her eyes, but her heart is trying remember what it is to beat.

xxxxxx

"David?" he tries, but his friend continues to stare at the mobile, transfixed. "David!" Graham reaches for the glass, but David rounds on him with fire in his eyes. Graham takes a step back and raises his eyebrows. "Easy. It's me."

David blinks and finally seems to come back to himself. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"Do you remember?!" Jefferson asks, and Graham nudges him none too gently with the tip of his boot.

"Be quiet."

David places the mobile back on its hook but doesn't remove his eyes from it.

"What was that about?" Graham murmurs, low enough so Jefferson can't hear.

"I don't know," David responds.

"_Is _this yours?" Graham touches the glass and sends fragmented light dancing on the wall.

"… I don't know."

It's an odd answer – either you know or you don't – and Graham figures a perfectly carved glass unicorn mobile is not something easily forgotten.

"Come on. Follow me to the station." He places a firm hand on David's shoulder, but even with a tug, the man is still hard to move from his spot.

"Right…" David says, turning to Graham, his gaze flickering to the man on the ground. "Right."

Jefferson smiles a smile that's not quite sane. "It's begun."

"Shut up," Graham replies at the same time David asks, "What's begun?"

"The beginning of the end," the thief replies and Graham rolls his eyes, hauling him to his feet.

"Nutter."

With David's help, Jefferson is thrown rather unceremoniously into the backseat of the cruiser and Graham leads the way to the station to find Mr. Gold already waiting for them.

"Ah, Jefferson," Gold stands with a welcoming smile on his face. "Lovely to see you."

Jefferson mutters an expletive as Graham shuts the cell door behind him.

"Nothing taken or broken, though a couple of your swords might have a few new dings on them."

Gold smiles and turns to David, as if he knows. "Do they now. Handled it well, I bet."

David shifts uncomfortably under Gold's scrutiny and Graham steps in between them, blocking his friend from view. "No harm done."

"What was he after?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees David stiffen and Graham's not sure why, but he knows the mobile and his reaction to it need to stay between them. "Not sure. We'll question him and get back to you."

Gold seems unconvinced, but nods anyway and raises his cane. "Thank you for your service, gentlemen. I'm sure we'll be in touch."

Gold saunters out of the station and David lets out the breath he had been holding. "My office," Graham murmurs as he passes him, leading the other man into the windowed room and shutting the door behind them.

"You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?" He leans his palms on his desk and levels his gaze at his friend.

"I don't know," David whispers, taking a seat and dropping his head into his hands. "It was like… It was like I'd seen it before. Like it was mine. I think – I think it was."

"David – "

"I know it sounds crazy," he interrupts. "I know that. But I've seen it before. And how many of them can there be?" He looks up and Graham reels at how confused and distraught the normally strong and unflappable man looks. "It's mine. I know it is. Somehow, deep in my gut, I know."

"But…" Graham begins as gently as possible, "you've never had a baby."

"I realize that," he snaps, but his tone is wounded and Graham takes no offense.

"Look." Graham leans on the desk and waits until David meets his gaze. "We'll figure this out. I promise you."

David nods and offers a tight smile, before rubbing his forehead and sighing deeply.

"You were pretty good back there. Better than good."

"Dumb luck," the other man replies, but Graham shakes his head.

"Luck had nothing to do with it." He surveys David thoughtfully. "I could use a deputy."

David snorts. "Good one."

"I mean it. I am a one-man sheriff department. I'm shocked Storybrooke isn't the murder capital of the east coast."

"Wait. You're serious?" David cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, looking rather incredulous.

"Very." Graham opens a drawer and tosses the deputy badge on the desk. "I guarantee it'll be more interesting than feeding old cats. And I'll even bring in donuts from time to time."

David's mouth hangs open as he stares at the badge glinting in the office light. Graham can practically see him weighing the pros and cons, and when he flicks his eyes up, the decision has been made.

"I'll have to give the shelter notice."

"Understandable. Two weeks?"

"Uh, sure," David says.

"You don't get the badge yet, but in the meantime, try this on." Graham tosses an empty holster at him and David catches it deftly.

He holds it, slipping one arm in, failing, trying the other arm, before quickly realizing he's putting it on backwards.

"How the hell do you even wear this thing?"

xxxxxx

The sheriff had been lying. Of that, Gold is positive.

But he wouldn't be Rumpelstiltskin if he didn't have contingencies. After all, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what had David Nolan so on guard. There are few objects in the shop that would appeal to the young man, and Gold knows it certainly wasn't the windmill.

He picks up the phone and dials the number he's long since memorized. Four rings go by before a voice as smooth as velvet answers.

"Hello?"

"Madame Mayor."

There's silence for a moment. "What do you want?"

"I have a proposition for you," he replies, running his finger over the folder that bears Emma Swan's name.

"What is it?" No games then. Damn. He misses the playful Regina.

"Something to help with your current… _concern_." He smiles and opens the folder tracing the words written on the page with a nail. "By the way, did you ever find out the information on that social worker? The one who dropped the little girl off?"

Silence.

"No? Pity," he replies.

"What do you want for it?"

"How about we discuss the terms over a glass of your famous apple cider."

"Fine."

He begins to hang up, but quickly brings the phone back to his ear for a wicked addendum. "Oh, by the way. The town has a new deputy."

"That's not possible. I didn't approve a new hire."

"Regardless," he waves his hand at the technicality.

She's quiet for a moment, and Gold knows he has her. "Who is it?"

He stands up and grips the phone tighter, a smile sliding across his face. He's going to enjoy this. "David Nolan."

"Son of a bitch." Something crashes and Regina's voice comes back as hard as rock and as sharp as glass. "Bring that woman's name to me now!"

xxxxxx

David trudges up the front walk, the leather holster slung over his shoulder. His body aches from Graham's tackle and Jefferson's attack, and he feels both emotionally and physically drained. If forced to sum up the evening in one word, it would probably fall under the category of 'unreal.'

He stretches his neck and groans as it pops, reaching for the front door when it suddenly swings back to reveal Mary Margaret. She's a sight for sore eyes, to be sure, but what makes her absolute perfection at this moment is that he's not just staring at Mary Margaret. He's staring at Mary Margaret wearing a pair of his socks.

She must notice his gaze, because she immediately goes red, shifting her weight from one wool-covered foot to the other.

"I'm sorry. I got cold and didn't want to mess with your thermostat and I saw them in the pile of clean laundry and I didn't think – "

It's hard to hear what she says after that with his lips pressed firmly to hers.

His mind goes beautifully blank for a full minute as his body takes over, memorizing and categorizing every breath, touch, and sound that has to do with the woman in his arms.

When his brain finally jumpstarts, he pulls away with a gasp, staring into hazel eyes that are deep enough for him to fall into.

"Hi," he finally whispers.

"Hi," she quietly responds.

"Is Emma asleep?"

"She is."

"May I kiss you again?"

"Yes," she breathes out as she steps forward and initiates the brush of their lips.

He truly hadn't planned on it. He opened his mouth to ask how the night went, but his body and soul apparently had a different agenda. He'll tell Mary Margaret that later, but for the moment, she doesn't seem to mind. So he wraps his arms around her, lifting her onto the toes that wear his socks.

And so wrapped up are they in the feel of their lips and the grip of their hands that they don't see the car idling across the street. They don't see the driver grinning as she tilts the side mirror down, getting a better view of them on the porch. And because they don't see her, they'll never know about the folder sitting on the passenger seat bearing the name of the girl sleeping upstairs.

They see each other and nothing more.

_Yes, _Regina smiles, thinking back on her meeting with Gold. _Yes this will work out nicely. _


	8. Progressions

**For Boston.**

_Progressions_

"That was incredibly forward of me, I'm sorry," David babbles as he pulls his lips away from her for the third time that night.

"I wasn't complaining," she replies, which is such an un-Mary Margaret thing to say that for a moment, she's thrown. Her hands wander from his chest to his waist and he hisses as she reaches his ribs. "Sorry!"

"No, it's okay." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, gingerly inspecting the damage himself. "I sort of got tackled by Graham."

"By Graham?"

"He thought I was a thief." And only then can he really see the cuts and scrapes and rapidly forming bruises in the light of the lamp hanging from the porch ceiling.

She bites her lip, swollen from his kisses and takes his hand, leading him into the house. "Let's get you cleaned up."

The moment has passed – the odd, beautiful, almost magical moment that swept them up on a cool October night. He wants to go back, but something is preventing him. An invisible wall that takes his deepest desires and happiest secrets and locks them away. It's the cruelest kind of punishment – he _knows _what he wants, he just… can't get there.

So he allows himself to be led into the house and helped into the chair at the kitchen table, because if he can't follow his heart, then following Mary Margaret is certainly the next best thing. She frowns for a moment, eyes glancing around the cabinets.

"Apparently I don't know your kitchen as well as I thought I did. First aid kit?"

"Uh, hall closet," he responds, draping the holster on the back of the chair. Graham actually expects him to _wear_ that thing?

She returns a moment later, giving him a shy smile as she places the kit on the table and makes a noncommittal gesture towards his shirt.

"You, um, you have to take that off."

"Oh." Right. He grabs the hem and tries to tug it over his head, but the short amount of time that he's spent motionless is apparently enough to make his muscles stiff. "Ow."

"Here, here," she says and he feels rather than sees her take hold of the material and help ease it off. "Oh wow. Graham certainly packs a wallop."

He glances down to find his torso black and blue. "Half of that is the fault of the thief. We ended up dueling in the middle of Gold's shop."

She raises an eyebrow and opens the kit. "Dueling?"

"With swords."

"Impressive."

He's not sure if she believes him or not, but she's running her palm along his ribs, feeling for breaks so frankly he doesn't care. What he _does _care about, is her ability to feel the rapid uptick of his heartbeat as her exploration ends at the scar on his chest.

"Just bruised, I think."

"Oh, did you get your medical license since last we met?" he teases.

"Watch your words, Mr. Nolan. You're in my care at the moment." She threateningly holds up the bottle of rubbing alcohol and he chuckles before promptly wincing.

"Ow."

"Don't do that."

"Then don't make me laugh."

"Then don't find me funny."

He laughs again and groans in pain, and she rushes forward placing her hands on his shoulders.

"Shh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. No more teasing." She runs her thumb across his creased brow, easing the pained frown from his face. "Better?"

He nods, but words seem to have failed him.

"Good," she whispers, pulling her chair closer and setting the first aid kit in her lap. She makes good on her threat and cleans his cuts. He tries to be a man about it and not flinch, but it really does sting.

It takes two band-aids, an ice pack, and three ibuprofen to deem him 'fit for active duty.' Mary Margaret stands with a proud look at her handiwork and smiles.

"You're patched up and I think that's my cue."

"I can't thank you enough for today. Not only for helping me through my panic attack, but for staying… and watching her."

"It was my pleasure," she says with a soft smile.

They're silent, just drinking each other in, but that weight in the pit of his stomach, that heavy invisible wall is building itself up again and he can't let her leave without attempting some sort of explanation.

"Look, about earlier – " he starts, unsure of how to finish, but Mary Margaret beats him to the punch.

"I understand. You're still married. You've got Emma. It's… complicated. Don't worry about it."

"I wasn't worried," he quietly replies. "Kissing you would never worry me."

And it won't. He knows it.

Her face softens and he wants to lean in again; he feels the autopilot coming back on, but before he can even remind himself to commit this moment to memory, a sniffle comes from the hall and he looks over to find Emma in the doorway, tears streaming down her face.

He's out of his chair in a flash and dropping to his knees in front of her, pain be damned. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

"I had a bad dream and wet the bed and went to find you but you were gone!" her voice breaks into sobs on the last word and his heart splits in two.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry. I'm right here," he murmurs, gathering her to his chest, not caring that her nightgown is damp. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise." He places a kiss on her head and picks her up, grunting lightly as his ribs protest, and carries her to the bathroom.

He knows Mary Margaret has followed him, even though she's been mostly silent since Emma arrived. He can feel her behind him, like the air is charged just from her presence.

"Arms up, squirt," David gently instructs and Emma is quick to comply. He pulls the nightgown over her head and runs warm water in the tub. Emma turns to stick a finger in and test the temperature and Mary Margaret's gasp echoes off the tiled walls.

Emma immediately spins around, cowing against the side of the tub and David holds his palm out, not touching her, as he grabs onto Mary Margaret's wrist.

He's trying to say _I know, I reacted the same way, please please remain calm _in the gentle but firm way he holds her arm, and it's to Mary Margaret's credit that she doesn't utter a sound. David's eyes, however, never leave Emma's and, after making sure that Mary Margaret has received his message, he inches closer to the little girl.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Nothing bad's gonna get you. I'm here."

Emma's gaze darts from his palm to his face and back again, before she scoots closer and takes his outstretched hand. "I know," she whispers so quietly he almost doesn't hear and she allows him to wrap his arms around her and gently lift her into the tub.

"Too hot?" he asks and she shakes her head. He grabs a bar of soap and lets her wash her body as he takes a cup of water and instructs her to tilt her head back. She complies and he runs the water over her head, threading his fingers through her blond hair.

"I'm, um, I'm going to change the sheets." Mary Margaret's voice is hollow and her expression blank, like something irreplaceable has been taken from her and not put back.

"You don't have to do that," he murmurs.

"I want to."

He nods, understanding a little of both her need to leave the claustrophobic bathroom and her desire simply to _do_ something. "Sheets are in the hall closet upstairs."

She nods briefly and disappears. David watches her go for a moment, before returning his focus to the girl in front of him.

Her bruises are still jarring, but not nearly as debilitating as they were that first time on the bank of the water. When she leaned out to feed the ducks and he grabbed her shirt, simultaneously saving her and shattering himself. It was a truth he didn't know he wasn't ready for, but under the harsh bathroom light, he must face his fears head on.

"Do you want to tell me about the nightmare?"

"It was the bad man."

He didn't ask last time, but he wonders if it's time to tempt fate. "And who's the bad man?"

"Daddy Sullivan. It's what he made us call him," she whispers as she shivers. David's not sure whether it's from the cold or the memory.

He's also not sure if he's ever loathed anybody as much as he loathes this man he's never met. How dare he touch her. How dare he lay a finger on any part of her body. How dare he tarnish a name that David secretly hoped she'd maybe one day reserve for him.

Daddy.

He lets his breath out slowly and tries not to show his shaking hands as he squeezes the excess water from her hair. "And what did he do?"

He holds a towel up and she steps into it, falling into his chest and letting him wrap the fabric around her. "Hurt me."

He runs his hand gingerly up her back, knowing that bruises stain her skin beneath the cotton. "He won't hurt you again. Not while I'm here."

She tilts her head up and smiles for the first time since coming downstairs. "My hero."

It's such an unexpected answer, especially from her five-year-old mouth, that he snorts and holds her a little tighter. "Well, I _did _practice my sword fighting skills tonight."

"Really?!"

"Uh huh. I wasn't too bad either."

"Can I sword fight?"

Oh, he's just opened a whole new can of worms he's so not prepared for.

"Sure, squirt," he says instead, picking her up – towel and all – and carrying her to the kitchen where the pile of clean laundry still sits. "T-shirt preference?"

And of course, she pulls one of his from the stack and he places her on the floor so she can slip it on. Her head pops up through the collar, making her damp hair stand on end and he places a kiss on her forehead, trying to gauge her temperature with his lips. She's cooler than she's been all day and he feels the kind of relief one must experience after finding out that a terminal diagnosis is false. Fatherhood might very well be the death of him.

"Wanna try and sleep again?"

She bites her lip and he knows the question before she even asks it. He also knows his answer. "Can I sleep with you?"

"Of course," he replies. "Go warm the bed and I'll be up in a second."

She hugs him around one leg and jogs off to the stairs, her little feet thumping as she takes them faster than she should.

He didn't press for further details, but he knows that Sullivan will haunt his nightmares as sure as Mary Margaret will haunt his dreams.

xxxxxx

She tucks the edge of the sheet under the mattress and spreads the comforter down on top. Her throat is tight and she's fighting a losing battle to keep her emotions in check because every time she blinks, she sees the marks that create the most horrific of patterns on the little girl's back.

Emma's familiar footfalls speed up the stairs and Mary Margaret can't help the smile that spreads across her face when the girl proves her assumption right and heads to David's room instead of her own.

She hears David's heavy tread next, and she tries to school her features into something resembling calm. But the moment he appears in the doorway, she crumbles under the weight of his gaze.

"Hey, hey," he says as he steps forward and takes her into his arms. She cries into his chest, consciously trying to keep her sobs quiet.

The abuse of a child is inexcusable in any circumstance, but for some reason – knowing Emma was on the receiving end results in a pain Mary Margaret isn't sure she's felt before or equipped to handle.

"I've got you," he murmurs, the same thing she heard him say to the girl lying safe in his bed, and something inside Mary Margaret heals at knowing he considers them to be part of the same category.

"Did you know?" she finally manages, refusing to pull away just yet. She's drawing too much strength from his arms around hers.

"I knew there had been a troubled past. I didn't know about the bruises until the day she got here."

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Live. How do you… live?"

He's silent for a moment and she briefly wonders if she's gone too far. But when his voice comes, it's positively wrecked. "I live knowing that she's here and no longer there. Knowing that I will die before I let him or anyone else touch her again."

His fingers run through her cropped hair and she closes her eyes once more, inhaling deeply. She's not sure how long they stay like that, but he continues to rub circles on her back and she realizes with a pang that no one was there to do this for him when he had this realization.

The thought makes her grip him tighter.

"Thank you for making the bed, even though it won't get much use tonight."

She chuckles and finally lets go, wiping her eyes and pressing cool hands to flushed cheeks. She opens her mouth to tell him she'll drop the dirty sheets in the washer on her way out, but her focus zeros in on something peeking out from under Emma's pillow and all else fades away.

The blanket is worn, but loved; it's white a little gray and its ribbon a little frayed. She runs her finger over letters stitched into purple and hugs the fabric to her chest, breathing in a scent as familiar as David's. An improbability as impossible as the first.

"Did you get this for her?" Her voice doesn't quite sound like hers. It seems to echo with the weight of the answer she seeks.

A strange look passes across his face – as if he has the urge to say, _Yes, _but opts for _No _instead. "She came with it. From her birth parents, apparently."

"_You have to take her. Take the baby to the wardrobe." _

"_Are you out of your mind?" _

"_No, it's the only way. You have to send her through." _

"_No, no, no, you don't know what you're saying." _

"_No, I do. We have to believe that she'll come back for us. We have to give her her best chance." _

_She waits until he leaves the room, carrying the most precious of cargos, before the first sob rips through her throat. _

"No," she whispers, still half in the present and half… not.

"No?" David questions, a smile playing on his lips, unaware of the words and images that just assaulted her psyche.

_David. _David was in the room. He took a baby, a baby wrapped in _this _blanket.

"You okay?" His voice is like a cacophony in her already cluttered mind and she backs up as he takes a step closer, stumbling back into the nightstand, nearly knocking the lamp off its base. "Whoa," he places a steadying hand on her waist, "you all right?"

"Yeah, fine. I think – I think I just need some sleep." She's always been a horrible liar and David is eyeing her as if he's just come to that conclusion as well.

"You sure?"

"Uh huh."

She places the blanket almost reverently in his arms, and watches as he stares at it for a moment.

_Please, _she finds herself pleading, hoping that he'll meet her halfway and make some sense what she's experiencing, but alas, the moment ends. He glances up and gives her a half-smile she swears is reserved only for her.

"It's late; I can drive you."

"Don't be silly," she swallows hard. "Stay here and tuck her in."

His gaze goes soft at the mention of Emma and he turns almost automatically toward his room, craning to see her curled up in his bed.

"Thank you again for tonight." His sincerity nearly does her in, and she finds herself replying, "Anytime," and truly meaning any single hour of the day or night.

She starts towards the door, but his hand is on her arm before she makes it into the hallway.

"I know I'm… complicated. But if I – I mean, if you wanted to grab a – "

"Yes," she interrupts, too thrilled to be embarrassed about her enthusiasm.

"Yes?" Hope floods blue eyes so much like Emma's. _Too_ much like Emma's.

"To whatever," she breathes. "Yes."


	9. Party Hats

For gigigoodwins. If you do the tumblr thing and haven't seen her liveblog of this fic, dear god, go. It's better than watching Aurora try to figure out a leather jacket.

_Party Hats_

Regina is not a fan of Mondays.

In fact, she's not really a fan of most days – the monotony does wear thin – but Mondays in particular are jarring. And not because of the more recent spectacle of watching David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard time their arrival at school so pathetically precisely, despite the fact they saw each other probably not 24 hours ago. It's ridiculous.

Not, however, as ridiculously delicious as her sheriff in those pants.

"Graham," she nods.

"Madam Mayor," he greets rather curtly. He's been acting strange recently. Ever since… well. Ever since things started changing. He's spent two nights in her bed in the three weeks since Charming's brat turned up and Regina is getting antsy, for lack of a better word.

"I'm cooking lasagna tonight. Care to come over?" Her tone is forward, even if her smile is not.

He gives a tight grin that does nothing to hide the guarded look on his face. "Can't, sorry," he says, sounding not very sorry at all. "Have other plans."

"Do you, now." Her smile slips the smallest fraction as he tips a non-existent hat and continues toward the school.

Well. Give it a day.

She's quite confident he won't be singing the same tune come tomorrow.

xxxxxx

He can't even let an awkward confrontation derail his high spirits as he whistles on his way up the path already swarming with children.

It is October 23rd, the sun is out, and Graham has a very important job to do.

The hallway is general chaos as kids collect their books and stuff them into their bags, lockers bang shut, and teachers yell at students not to run. Graham holds his arms up as children swarm around him in the end of day rush.

"Hi, Sheriff," some of them call but they've disappeared before he can offer a greeting in return.

Finally, he reaches his destination and peeks through the window, wondering how much trouble his charge has gotten up to in the three minutes since the bell rang.

"But _why _do I have to wait here?" Emma asks, hands on her hips and head tilted, studying the teacher with a skeptical gaze.

"Because someone is coming to get you," Mrs. Lynch replies with the patience of a saint.

"Yes, _David_ is," she states. "And he always waits for me outside."

Graham opens the door and smiles at the teacher, before turning and winking at Emma.

"Milady," he says, bowing slightly, "I have come to collect you."

She cocks her head as she stares up at him, scrunching her nose slightly. It might be the most adorable thing he's ever seen.

"I'm not supposed to go with strangers," she replies and Graham tries _really _hard not to be offended.

"I'm not a stranger! I'm Mr. Graham!"

Her eyes narrow in a way that is so distinctly _David, _Graham has to pause a minute and remind himself that she isn't actually his daughter.

Finally, she concedes. "You still talk funny."

"But I have a badge." He points to his belt and she seems to consider.

"Okay."

Gotta love the logic of a six-year-old. "Where's your bag?" he asks and she holds up a backpack that would barely fit one of his boots. "Lovely. Got your homework?"

"Yes," she grumbles, throwing a mutinous gaze at Mrs. Lynch, who merely smiles in return.

"And we're off," Graham announces. "Thank you, Mrs. Lynch. A pleasure as always."

Graham pretends not to notice her blush as he leads Emma out the door, down the hall, and into the sunlight.

"So how come you're getting me?" she asks before her expression suddenly goes panicked. "Is David okay?"

"David's fine," he assures.

"But he _always _comes to get me. He said he'd always be there – "

"He's absolutely fine, I promise."

It's clear though that she doesn't quite trust him, as she pales and begins to hyperventilate.

"Emma. Love, you've gotta calm down," he pleads, dropping to his knees in front of her. "I promise you, nothing is wrong with David. He… had to take care of something."

He desperately wants to tell her, but doesn't want to ruin the surprise.

"Emma," he licks his lips and frowns, trying to figure out how on earth to approach this topic of conversation. "David is my best friend and I care a great deal about him. You know that, right?"

She nods, but tears still swim in her eyes.

"Well, David cares a great deal about you. And you make him very happy. Happier than he's been in a very, very long time. So that makes you pretty special in my book." Graham smiles and taps her nose. "So if you could learn to trust me, maybe someday even _like _me, that would be great, because I really like _you_."

The hesitation in Emma's eyes slowly dissipates and a shy smile starts to form. He counts it as a major victory when she slides her hand in his, effectively telling him that she will follow wherever he may choose to lead.

The solemnity of the prior moment rapidly disappears as she begins to swing his hand, skipping every couple of steps to keep up with his long strides. "Wait… home's that way." She points in the opposite direction.

"Well spotted. We're not going home."

"We're not?"

"Nope." He winks at her again, but she merely gives him an unimpressed eyebrow arch. Her expression becomes more and more confused though when he leads her across the street and under the garden arch of Granny's diner.

"Mr. Graham, what are we – " she trails off as he opens the door and "SURPRISE" echoes around the restaurant.

Graham is waiting for the scream, the laughter, the sheer _joy _that a surprise birthday party brings out in a six-year-old, but nothing comes. David, Mary Margaret, Granny, Ruby – they're all smiling and wearing rather ridiculous party hats, but Emma's hand slips from his and it's the first clue that something is very much wrong.

"Emma?" David asks, concern clear in his tone. Of course he's the first person to notice the girl's distress.

Emma's eyes sweep from David to the 'Happy Birthday' banner hanging above the bar to Graham, before sliding back to David and she promptly bursts into tears and runs from the diner.

The partygoers stand stock still for a moment – completely stunned that their surprise had the complete opposite effect of what they intended.

"All right, Daddy. Duty calls," Graham murmurs, and David sprints out of the restaurant with a pained look on his face.

"Well, that went well," Ruby deadpans, turning back to her work and pulling her hat off as Mary Margaret approaches Graham.

"Did something happen?"

"No, she was fine on the way here. A little mistrusting, but fine."

Mary Margaret is craning to see if she can catch a glimpse of them through the bushes, but they seem to have disappeared around the corner.

"Come on," Graham says, slinging an arm around Mary Margaret's shoulder and spinning her towards the punch. "David will talk her down from the ledge. Now where's the cake?"

xxxxxx

It doesn't take long to catch up to her.

In fact, she hasn't really gone every far at all. David turns the corner to find Emma plopped down on the curb, face buried in her knees, and sobs shaking her tiny, oh so fragile body.

"Em?" He slowly approaches, but stops a few feet away. "Emma?"

"Uh huh?" she warbles.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"You always say not to cross the road unless accompanied by an adult, so I got here and couldn't go any further."

His heart nearly bursts at the response.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, but why'd you run away from the party?" He chances another step closer and when she doesn't move, he sits down next to her on the cold cement. "Did you not like it?"

She shakes her head and blond curls tumble over her knees. He still can't see her face, but her sobs have quieted, at least.

"It was great," she mumbles.

He's completely at a loss. "Then… why the tears, squirt?"

Finally she lifts her head and his heart constricts at sight of her swollen eyes. "It's my first birthday party."

_Oh. _

David schools his dumbstruck features and gives her a half smile. "Then we better make it the best party ever."

He thanks someone somewhere for allowing his voice to come out steady, even as his fists clench at his sides. He thinks about a wish he's been dreaming of more frequently; it's a wish to whisk Emma away and start completely over. From baby, to toddler, to tiny adult and bring her up spoiled and cared for and _loved. _David wishes for that more than he's wished for anything else, but he knows it's a pipedream. The girl before him is broken but not irreparably. She _is _spoiled and cared for and loved. Now.

He leans down and places a kiss on her forehead, wiping away her tears with his thumb.

"It's not my birthday, but I feel like I got the best present."

"What was it?"

"You."

She blushes and presses her face into his chest as he chuckles. "I mean it, squirt. You're all I could've asked for."

"For serious?"

He laughs at her word choice and pulls her sideways into him. "For serious. Now come on. Granny made a cake and…" he pauses for dramatic effect, "there might even be a present or two with your name them."

She gasps and jumps up, tugging David along with her. He stands as she holds her arms out and he obliges by lifting her into his. Soon, she'll be too old for this. Soon, she might not even be with him. So he's going to take advantage of every available opportunity and he does so by hugging her slightly closer to his chest.

"You still have your hat on," she murmurs into his shoulder, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck.

He glances up and finds that she's correct, much to his chagrin. He just had a heart-to-heart that he thought was going particularly well, while wearing an orange glittery cone on his head.

"No!" Emma shouts as he reaches up to tug it off. "Leave it."

"You don't mind being seen in public with me like this?" he jokes.

"It's my party and I want you to have a hat."

He smiles as he adjusts the hat so it sits at a jaunty angle. "Then a hat I shall have."

His daughter giggles – his daughter for all intents and purposes – and in that moment, he vows to bring forth that sound from her as frequently as humanly possible.

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret bites her nail as she paces from the bar to the table and back again.

It's been only a few minutes since David went flying out the door after Emma, but really, they should be back by now. Mary Margaret is so busy looking towards the window, trying to catch a glimpse of their return that she nearly runs smack into Graham.

"Oh, geez. Sorry," she mutters, finally glancing up and snorting at his attire.

He's donning a bright blue party hat and the silver streamers that stick out of the top bobble every time he brings a bite of chocolate cake up to his mouth.

"You were supposed to wait for Emma to blow out the candles."

"Granny made two. Snuck me a piece of the extra," he mumbles around a mouthful and winks.

She rolls her eyes and glances at Granny, knowing full well the woman as a soft spot for the young wayward men of the town.

"They're fine, Mary Margaret. Stop worrying," Graham groans. "You're bumming me out."

"Sorry," she replies as she steals his fork and pops the bite of cake into her mouth.

"Oi! I don't know you well enough to share cake. Only David is allowed to steal my food."

"And Emma?" she counters.

Graham's face softens. "Emma can steal anything she damn well pleases."

Mary Margaret laughs as the bell chimes over the door, promptly causing half of the diner to yell "SURPRISE" once more. The second attempt is definitely more successful than the first, as Emma smiles from David's arms, before burying her face shyly in his neck.

"What do you say?" he whispers and Mary Margaret can hear a quiet "Thank you" come from somewhere.

"Come here, sweetheart." Granny bustles over to David and lifts Emma out of his arms. "I have a surprise for you."

"A hat?"

"And much more," Granny responds and Emma's eyes go as wide as saucers upon spying the cake.

David shakes his head, but his eyes fondly watch the girl as she practically bounces over to the table of presents. Mary Margaret thinks she could do this all day – watching him. More precisely, watching him watch her. Something comes across his face that defies all description, and Mary Margaret thinks it's one of the most wondrous things she's ever seen.

"Looks good on you," she murmurs and he jumps, startled.

"What?"

She says, "The hat," but she means the look.

"Oh," he blushes as he adjusts it, but doesn't pull it off. Mary Margaret is sure Emma had something to do with that. "Just one of the many favors on offer here at Chez Granny." He raises his eyebrows as he pulls a string of purple beads from his pocket. "I think she went a little overboard at the party store."

Her hand reaches out for the beads, before something seizes every limb in her body. She's been here before. She's done _this _before. The necklace dangles over her open palm, swinging gently from left to right, but the purple orbs are not what she sees.

No, she sees silver. A silver pendant sliding over a gloved hand, its meaning holding more weight than the wooden cart that carried them to this spot.

"_We're going to have a child." _

"_What?"  
_

"_We're going to have a child!"  
_

"_Is… there something I need to know?"  
_

"_I mean, someday." _

"_Well, of course we are!" _

"Mary Margaret?"

"Yes?" she whispers, eyes finally sliding from the party favor to David's concerned gaze.

"You've been doing that a lot recently."

"Sorry, I just…" _have had a lot on my mind, _she wants to say, but the excuse sounds cheap, even to her own ears. "Have we… have we ever met before?"

It sounds ridiculous, she knows it does, but she asks anyway.

"Before I dropped Emma off at school?" He frowns, as if truly thinking about it when most normal people would just say 'no' without a second thought. "I don't think so. I mean… I've been here my whole life, so… I suppose it's possible."

"But I mean have we met… elsewhere?"

"Elsewhere?" He looks confused, and yet frustrated, as if what she's saying sparks familiarity just out of his reach.

"I just…" she stops and swallows hard, wondering why on earth she's so overcome with emotion at a six-year-old's birthday party. "I just get this feeling… when I'm with you. It's like I've met you before."

There it is. That smile she swears is just for her. "Likewise."

And all of a sudden, she gets the sudden urge to lean in and brush her lips to his, but this is a highly public place and a highly inappropriate time, so she squashes the desire and turns to steal Graham's plate out of his hand, stuffing a bite of chocolate cake in her mouth.

"Oi! Stop doing that!"

"Oh, learn to share. Emma did," David teases as Graham punches him in the shoulder.

"That is Granny's cake. It is a precious commodity in these parts." He stalks off to grab another piece and David rolls his eyes.

"She'll make another one tomorrow," he says as he nods towards Mary Margaret's commandeered plate. "So what does a guy have to do to snag a bite?"

Mary Margaret's knees go weak. _So many things, _she wants to reply, but she merely holds out her fork and raises an eyebrow. "I learned to share a long time ago."

"Indeed," David replies as his lips close around the bite and Mary Margaret curses whomever suddenly turned the thermostat up.

"David!" Emma yells, effectively breaking the moment, which is probably for the best, since Mary Margaret was about a moment away from throwing him down on the nearest table, which is _so _not like her.

"Yeah, squirt?"

"Can I open this?" She's holding a messily wrapped present in her arms, already shaking it to see if she can tell what the brightly colored paper is hiding.

"Sure thing," David responds, before turning to Mary Margaret once more. "Thanks for the bite."

"Anytime." Oh my.

It takes Emma roughly five seconds to rip through the paper and tear open the box, and she gasps at what she finds.

"For me?"

"For you."

She pulls out a red leather jacket from its tissue-paper confines and holds it reverently in front of her, mouth hanging slightly open.

"It's just like yours."

"They didn't make them in little kid sizes, so you'll just have to grow into it."

She looks up at him, eyes shining, and the whole diner has gone silent almost out of respect for the enormity of this moment.

"Thank you," Emma whispers as she hurls herself at him, and Mary Margaret has to place a steadying hand on his back to keep him from toppling over.

"You're welcome," he replies, lifting her up and placing a kiss on her cheek. "Wear it well." He places her back down on the floor and she scurries over to watch Ruby place candles around the cake.

Five minutes and two renditions of 'Happy Birthday' later (Leroy was off-key during the first), Emma's face is covered in icing and Mary Margaret can't help but snap a picture as the girl sits in David's lap, head thrown back in laughter as David looks on, utterly besotted with the perfect being in his arms.

She already knows which frame she'll put it in, before she wraps it up and gives it to him.

"Miss Blanchard, is this from you?"

Mary Margaret looks over to where Emma is holding up a pair of wooden swords, and David's eyes widen as he gazes at the gift.

"It is."

'Wow,' Emma mouths, holding them up extra high for David to see.

"What do you say, squirt?"

Unlike her reaction to the leather jacket, Emma walks slowly over to Mary Margaret, takes her hand and tugs her down until they're eye-level with each other. "Thank you so much," she simply says, placing a chocolate kiss on Mary Margaret's cheek.

And that – that's when the pain starts.

"_I'm Snow. Snow White." _

"David look!" Emma runs off, brandishing her swords as Graham lifts the cake out of harm's way.

"_Why were you kissing that man in the stable? You're to marry my father. You're to be my mother." _

"Looking great, baby," he responds.

"And I can practice in my leather jacket!"

"_You don't know or trust me yet. Hey, I get it. I just need something to call you."_

"_Uh... Margaret. Erm, no. Uh, Mary. Mary."_

The bell over the door rings, merely adding to the diner's cacophony, but not for Mary Margaret. Every whisper, every murmur is like a freight train through her ears.

"_You're a girl?"  
_

"_Woman." _

The woman is young, nervously pushing her glasses up her nose, and looking desperately like she wants to be everywhere but here.

"Hi, I'm looking for David Nolan," she says, just as Mary Margaret reaches out for the nearest stable surface as images and voices slam into her head.

"_Aren't you a real Prince Charming." _

"_I have a name, you know."  
_

"_Don't care. 'Charming' suits you."  
_

"Here," David – Charming– _David _says and Mary Margaret has the desperate urge to tell him to run. He doesn't seem to need the warning, though. He knows who this woman is. And he is not happy to see her. "Miss Gordon."

Miss Gordon's eyes flick to Emma and a faint smile appears at the sight of her covered in chocolate and wearing a green hat.

This isn't right. She shouldn't be here. David. James. David. Charming.

_Snow. _

_Snow White. _

"Mr. Nolan, if I could have a moment of your time?" Miss Gordon asks, and it seems to echo in her ears as Snow comes back to herself. David places a hand on Emma's head as he moves slowly toward the door and Snow grabs his arm as he passes.

"Charming?" she whispers, desperation hanging on each syllable.

"What is?" he replies and her heart shatters.

"Nothing."

He gives her an odd look, but places a reassuring hand on her arm, despite the fact that he's swallowing against the fear she can see plainly in his eyes.

She watches him follow Miss Gordon out of the diner, and it's the last thing she sees before it all goes black.


	10. Aftermaths

_Aftermaths_

He's not sure he can do this. He's not sure he can physically survive what the woman in front of him has come here to say.

Julia Gordon adjusts her glasses, the third time she's done so since they stepped outside, and resolutely avoids looking back at the diner. If David is right in his assumptions, it's because Emma is staring at them through the window, wondering why Miss Gordon would come all the way to her birthday party only to take David and leave once more.

"Please don't." The words come out of their own accord and he's only slightly ashamed at how broken they sound. "Don't." _take her away from me._

She stares at him, regret darkening her every feature as she inhales deeply, preparing him. And perhaps herself.

"Mr. Nolan – "

But it's all she gets to say as the door to Granny's bursts open and Graham stands there carrying a limp Mary Margaret in his arms.

"David!"

No. David definitely knows he cannot survive this.

xxxxxx

"_Jesus, David, calm down." _

"_What happened?" _

"_She can borrow my leather jacket if it'll make her feel better." _

"_Graham, what the hell happened?" _

"_David, don't make me lock you up. I will." _

"_Mr. Nolan – "_

"_Not now, _please._"_

"_David, you're scaring Emma." _

The words come to her in a haze, carried over breath and breeze, echoing in a mind that has not quite come back to itself.

Her body hurts. Her joints, her bones, her head, her very soul. Pain thumps with every beat of her pulse, the only clue that she's alive at all. A groan slips through her lips, jarring in the previous moment's silence and yet her eyelids feel like they hold the weight of the world, unable to carry out even the small command to blink.

"Mary Margaret?"

His voice is familiar twice over, bringing with it the image of a badge and a bow. They contrast and yet one cannot exist without the other.

"Graham?"

"Jesus, Mary Margaret, you scared me." His tone radiates relief and she feels him take her hand a moment later.

Fear. She remembers being frightened of him once. Not anymore.

"_You're not a knight, are you." _

"_What makes you say that?" _

Her eyes finally do her bidding and open, bringing a brightly lit room and her exhausted protector into focus.

"What happened?" she croaks.

"You passed out."

"_She picked you to take me. Why?" _

"_I think you know." _

"No, what happened to David? Was that the social worker?"

At the mention of the woman, Graham's features darken. She sees the Huntsman in him now.

"She took Emma."

And then Snow's world drops from beneath her feet. Emma.

HerEmma. _Their _Emma.

"She took her? She just… she's gone?" Her heart drums against her sternum and she's removing the wire monitor from her finger before she even registers Graham trying to grab her wrists.

"Mary Margaret, stop. Stop!" His voice cracks like a whip, even though it's tinged with grief. He doesn't resemble the happy-go-lucky who was only too content to feast on Granny's cake and wear a blue party hat because a little girl asked him to. "Stop, please. I already locked up David. Don't make me lock up you."

"Locked up?" her lips mouth the words, but her voice deserts her. Charming. Her Charming. She needs to be with him now. He must be hurting so utterly completely. "Take me to him."

"Mary Margaret – " His loyalty is warring with itself. Loyalty to the heart and loyalty to the badge. She's seen that particular conflict of desire and duty on his face before.

"_Sound this when you need help." _

"_What?" _

"_It's a whistle that will bring you aide. You'll be led to safety. Now go. Run." _

"_I don't understand. You're not going to kill me?"_

"_Run!"  
_

"Graham." She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands on shaky feet. "I need to see my husband."

Perhaps he doesn't hear her. Perhaps he doesn't have the energy to point out her mistake. Perhaps the Hunstman buried within him knows she speaks the truth.

Either way, he doesn't correct her and Snow White is more grateful that Mary Margaret could ever show.

xxxxxx

His voice is hoarse but that doesn't stop him screaming.

"Graham! Open the door!" He punches the wall and groans in pain, cradling his fist in his hand as his knuckles bleed.

"Feel better?"

David rolls his eyes and suppresses the urge to ram the other man's head between the bars; an urge he's been suppressing for the past 39 minutes and 12 seconds.

"What. Cat got your tongue?" The man – _Jefferson, _David recalls – chuckles at his own joke and cocks his head, narrowing his eyes. "Bet you wished you had believed me."

"What?" David snaps, thoroughly finished with the topic at hand. There are only two things he's wishing for at the moment and only one has any chance at showing up. And that's only if she's discharged.

As for the other… well. Thinking about Emma causes a bone-deep pain that hurts from the marrow out. A pain he's not sure he'll survive if forced to live with her absence for much longer.

"I had a daughter too, once," the man says, and it's the sorrow in his voice that brings David's gaze to his.

"She wasn't my daughter," he gruffly replies and Jefferson smiles sadly.

"Wasn't she." He closes his eyes against what must be a thousand lifetimes of hurt, if going by the lines that crease his face. "She has your eyes."

"So they say."

"You need to believe me." The sorrow is replaced by desperation and he grasps the bars that separate their cells like a drowning man holding onto a buoy. "Please. For all our sakes. Believe."

"In what?" David's voice cracks and a tear slips down his cheek. What little strength or dignity he had leaves at the slightest sign of weakness. "They took her. They just… without even explaining. You can't begin to know what that feels like."

Jefferson is silent for a moment, his features going as stoic as David's ever seen them.

"Try me."

xxxxxx

"But I want _David!_"

Julia didn't think it was possible for her heart to break into smaller pieces, but time and again, Emma proves her wrong. Her every shout is like a pickaxe to her chest, chiseling away the armor she knew she'd need for this trip.

She doesn't want to do this. She's not sure she _can _do this.

"Take me back!" Emma is wailing in the back seat, pounding the windows, with cake still smeared on her face and a crumbled party hat bobbing on her head.

Julia can't go far with her. They need to collect her stuff, and there's the small matter of her foster father being behind bars, but not (for once) for the usual reasons.

David was protecting her. Was trying to save her from the heartbreak he knew Julia was about to bring. And his efforts put him in a metal cell, for his own sake more than anything else.

"Emma, please calm down," she begs, glancing in the rearview mirror to find the girl practically purple with barely contained sobs. "_Please_."

"I want David," she says over and over, until Julia is sure she'll hear it in her sleep in that same haunting, heartbreaking tone.

Too many times has a happy ending been snatched out of Emma's outstretched fingertips. Too many times has Julia seen tears stain the girl's cheeks. When is enough enough? When does fate finally decide it's had its fun?

Julia had hoped to calm Emma down by riding the car around town, but it's done nothing to soothe her sobs. But having a tantrum in an enclosed vehicle is slightly better than having Sheriff Humbert banging down her temporary door at Granny's.

She had to come, she reminds herself, as her heart shatters further. A complaint was filed, from the mayor of all people, and she was dispatched. Her job is on the line, but as Emma hiccups for the third time in the last minute, she realizes she might have her priorities thoroughly out of order.

"Emma, sweetheart, listen to me," she pleads as she slows the car to a stop somewhere by the water. The girl quiets but her hiccups and sniffles still pierce Julia like a dagger. "I had to come to get you. It's the rules. But I promise I will do all I can to get you back to David. Okay?"

"You promise?"

"I promise." And she means it.

In her lifetime, she's made a lot of empty promises, but that man, whose devastated eyes will haunt her until her dying day, belongs with the little girl whose entire world revolves around the life they've built together.

The blue bedding and the wooden swords. The red leather jacket and the green birthday hat.

Emma deserves that kind of generosity.

And Julie will be damned if she's the one to take it from her.

xxxxxx

Snow feels like vomiting.

Graham holds his elbow out for her to take as he gently guides her out of the hospital (against doctor's orders), but she wants nothing more than to run full tilt in the direction of the station.

"Graham…" she starts, knowing she's wading into dangerous waters, but needing to see if she can pull the Huntsman out of him the way someone pulled the princess out of her. "Have we… met before?"

He frowns as he guides her across the street. "You mean before you swooped in and knocked my best friend off his high horse?"

She has to bite her lip to keep from telling him it was the other way around.

"Before that. Before… all of that." _The curse, this land, this… identity._ Before it all.

"No, I don't think so." He raises an eyebrow and reaches over to lift a lock of hair off her forehead. "Are you sure you didn't hit your on the way down?"

Despite the circumstances, she can't help but smile. It's nice to see him laughing and making jokes. In their land, he was so serious. So stoic. It warms her heart to know that the man who wore a piece of bright orange cardboard on his head for two hours was buried within her hunter all along.

Now if only she could merge the two.

"I still think we've met before. I had… longer hair." Her voice modulates, going up at the end, silently asking if any of this rings a bell, but he stares blankly back at her.

"David's gonna want you admitted again. As soon as he finds out you discharged yourself, you know he is."

Graham's probably right, but Snow can't focus on that at the moment. The mention of 'David' has taken all precedence in her heart and in her mind.

David. James. Charming. Husband. Father.

All of his incarnations slam into her at once, each memory as bright and as real as the David Nolan of the past few weeks, and all fight for dominance within her. But she cannot choose and so she opens her heart up to all of them at once and she stumbles sideways into Graham at the sheer _love _that seems to glow out of her every pore.

'That's it," he states, stopping dead right beside the police cruiser. "I'm taking you back."

"What? You can't!"

"I'm sheriff. I can."

"But…" she struggles as she eyes the station, knowing her husband – her _unknowing _husband – waits just inside those doors. "I think I need to rest. Walking all the way back would only make me feel worse."

She's a horrible liar, but at least Graham doesn't know her as well as David and so doesn't see her fiction for what it is.

"Fine," he relents, offering his elbow once more (ever the gentleman) and ushering her inside the lobby. "Stay here."

"No."

"Mary Margaret." He sounds exasperated and the Mary Margaret in her feels contrite but the Snow in her wants to smack that look right off his face.

"David just had his daughter – " her breath hitches, "his daughter taken away from him. You have to let me go to him."

Her eyes swim, but she refuses to blink, unwilling to let a single tear fall to her cheek. Not yet.

There will be time for that later.

And she can see the moment the words sink in for him. She can actually pinpoint the second his heart breaks for the friend he had to lock up for his own safety and sanity. And without a word, he nods, holding the door to the bullpen open for her as she steels herself to face her husband as his wife for the first time in… But wait. It hasn't been 28 years.

She stops suddenly, causing Graham to bump into her back. Then what…? How is she awake? How is Emma _here_?

"Mary Margaret?" His voice stops her internal line of questioning and finally she gazes at him – her Charming – gripping the bars so tightly, his knuckles turn white.

"That's not her name," the man one cell over sing-songs and David lets out a low growl, but keeps his gaze on hers.

"Are you okay?"

She nods, finding herself utterly speechless now that he's in front of her. Her feet carry her closer, until all she has to do is reach out and let her fingertips brush along his temple.

He closes his eyes and leans into her palm, exhaling a shuddering breath that carries on it every blow of the past few hours.

"They discharged you?"

"Not exactly."

He gives her a look he's given her countless times before for many reasons he cannot remember. The thought makes her heart ache.

"They couldn't hold me there," she reasons.

"And _you_ can't hold me here," David directs at Graham.

"I think you'll find I can do pretty much anything I damn well please."

"Hey, if I was in the mayor's bed every night, I bet I could too," he spits out.

Graham narrows his eyes against the anger that flashes briefly in them, before sighing heavily and leaning on the bars. "I should punch you for that, but I know it's the grief talking."

"Fuck you."

"Apology accepted," Graham wryly replies. "Be nice, or I won't get you ice for that hand."

"You can't hold me in here," he says again and Graham nods.

"I know. I can't. But David, you would have torn Granny's apart. You scared the shit out of the social worker. God knows how badly you scared Emma!" David's face contorts with emotion, but Graham ploughs on. "If you weren't so concerned over Mary Margaret, I truly didn't know what you were going to do. And that scared me. I was scared for you," he says with finality, even as he pulls the keys from his pocket. "So I locked you up so I could take her to the hospital." He nods as Mary Margaret and David's grip on her hand tightens. "Now if you're good, I'll let you out."

"Do I get out on good behavior, too?" Jefferson asks and Graham picks up a stapler from a nearby desk and tosses it at the bars with a resounding clang. "I'll take that as a 'no."

Snow spares the man a glance as she steps closer to the bars. David hangs his head, his whole body shaking with the emotion of the day. She traces the outline of his fingers where they grip the bars, missing the gold band that used to reside on his fourth finger. The gold band that claimed him as hers.

"Where is she?" he finally croaks. At Graham's silence, David raises his head. "I know she's still here; where is she?"

"You can't go to her."

"Graham."

"She's at Granny's. They'll stay there overnight and get her things in the morning."

David nods, but it has nothing to do with acceptance. Snow moves over to Graham and gently takes the keys from his palm.

"Let him out."

"He can't go to her."

"He won't," she replies, even though every cell in her body is begging to be reunited with her own flesh and blood.

The situation is precarious at best. She cannot go bursting into the bed and breakfast and grab her daughter under one arm when no one else remembers she ever even had a child. When her own _husband _doesn't remember holding her hand through her birth. Going after Emma puts the entire town at risk, and as much as Snow desperately needs her family, she cannot do that to her friends.

Graham allows the keys to leave his hand and Snow walks over and slides them into the lock, turning it with a click. The door opens and Graham eyes David like a deer about to bolt.

"They have to take her," Graham reasons. David moves forward, opening his mouth to protest, but Graham clamps his hand over it, both silencing him and effectively restraining him. "But we can fight it." David struggles but Graham holds him tighter. "Adopt her. You know you want to. You've been thinking it since the day that girl arrived."

Snow has to turn around to hide the tears she can no longer fight. He shouldn't have to adopt her. He shouldn't have to fill out paperwork for a child that was born with his features and promptly placed in his arms.

Snow composes herself and turns to find Graham no longer restraining her husband, but rather hugging him. And David holds on so tightly, Snow swears Regina's curse couldn't even break them apart.

"At least let me say goodbye," David says as he pulls away. His voice breaks and Snow has to close her eyes against the sound.

She remembered what Grumpy said. She remembered how Charming begged them to open her casket so he could say one final farewell.

"_At least let me say goodbye." _

But true love's kiss can't fix this.

"I'll see what I can do," Graham says.

Her thumb moves to wipe a phantom tear, but her finger comes away smeared with chocolate instead.

_True Love's Kiss. _Emma had kissed her on the cheek, and the curse crumbled around her. Emma loved her. _Her _Emma loved her. Her daughter _kissed _her.

"I can't go back there. The house is full of her stuff, I just…" David trails off and Snow immediately steps forward, taking his hand.

"Come with me."

If she cannot claim her daughter, then at least she'll comfort her husband. He's in there somewhere…

She just has to find him.

xxxxxx

He doesn't remember much about the walk from the station to her apartment. In fact, he couldn't even tell you her address if asked.

All he's aware of is the numbness of his body, save for two locations: where his heart beats in his chest, and where Mary Margaret holds his hand. The pain in one and the warmth in the other are doing nothing to stave off the cold nothingness that seems to be taking over the rest of his body, but for the time being, he'll take the pain and the warmth in those sealed areas just for proof that he is, in fact, still alive.

"Rory, off," Mary Margaret says and only then does David look down to find the puppy nipping at his knees in the darkened apartment.

He drops down, unable to hold himself up any longer and allows the dog to leap into his arms. "Hey buddy, I missed you too." His voice sounds wrecked and it's no wonder Graham locked him up. He must have seemed completely insane.

He'll have to thank him later.

"Here." Mary Margaret presses a glass of water into his hand and he takes it with a small smile, a smile she's slow to return. He marvels at the fact that this woman always seems to know exactly what he needs; he stands on shaky legs and stares at her in the moonlight, pretty sure he's never seen anything more beautiful.

She seems to be drinking him in as well, her eyes flicking over every feature and lingering on the scar that mars his chin.

"You should get some rest," she whispers, as if speaking any louder would shatter what little peace they've found. He nods and heads over to the couch, but before he can even drop onto it, she's taking his hand once more and leading him to the bedroom.

She gently pushes him onto the edge of the bed, and for a moment, he's not sure what her next step is. To others, it would be obvious, but this is Mary Margaret Blanchard. She has never been particularly commanding or overtly obvious. So he sits silently, allowed her to kneel in front of him and run the tips of her fingers over his cheekbone before tracing his jawline. She's studying him, committing every flaw to memory, and David lets her, because for as broken as he feels, he has a sense that her every touch is slowly healing him.

There's something in her eyes – something different. The Mary Margaret in front of him is not the same woman he stole a bite of cake from at the party today.

And he finds he's okay with that. More than okay.

Her fingers move from his jaw to his ear and then to his collar, following the fabric around the front, until she pauses on the first button. It pops open with the gentlest of tugs and she continues down until his shirt falls opens, revealing the white tee beneath.

He doesn't say a word, playing along with the unspoken rules of this incredibly delicate game.

She pushes the shirt off his shoulders and immediately reaches for the hem of the tee. It's off before he registers a draft and she's back to tracing the marks on his skin. He finds himself watching her just as acutely as she studies him, registering the emotion on her face as her finger reaches the scar on his shoulder before traveling to the one on his abdomen. He watches her swallow hard, sees the tears pool in her eyes, and because he knows without a doubt that he loves this woman, he reaches forward and tucks a short piece of hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek which fits perfectly in his palm.

Finally, she leans forward and places a chaste yet lasting kiss on his forehead, before brushing feather light touches against each of his eyelids. She's not shy at all as she stands and turns, silently asking him to unzip her dress. He obliges, still unsure where all of this is going, and watches as she allows the fabric to fall to the floor and lithely steps out of it.

"Shoes," she whispers, nodding to his feet and he follows her gaze a little dumbly as she moves to the dresser and pulls out pajamas. Oh. Right. Shoes.

His fingers are uncoordinated as he attempts to unlace the boots, but eventually he gets them off.

She stands before him in a simple cotton nightgown and gestures vaguely to his jeans. His luck is not much better with the belt and it takes him three tries before he successfully undoes the buckle. The jeans drop to the floor and he steps out of them with hardly the grace she did, but she doesn't seem to notice as she pulls the covers on the bed back and waits for him to meet her on the other side.

"Get in," she finally says when he doesn't move and so he slides in, still a little unsure, and freezes as she joins him. "I won't bite."

The comment draws a smile and his facial muscles hurt from not having made that movement in a while. He's not sure what he expects – perhaps her to stay on the left side and him to stay on the right with an invisible line down the middle – but it's definitely not what actually happens.

She props herself up on a pillow and reaches for him, gently easing his head to her chest. He's stiff at first, but eventually allows his cheek to rest just below her collarbone as her heart drums a steady beat in his ear. It might be the most comforting sound he's ever heard.

It takes a moment, but eventually he slides one arm under her as the other drapes over her stomach, pulling her closer and inhaling her more. She's placing small kisses in his hair and, yes, he thinks he could pretty much stay here for all eternity.

No words are said. No words are needed. And if she feels his tears drip onto her skin, she doesn't say a word.

He wonders what will happen tonight if Emma has a nightmare. He wonders if Miss Gordon picked up her blanket from the house before taking her to Granny's. He wonders if she'll ever have banana pancakes again, and he wants to ask – to whisper his fears into the night, but his wonderings have stolen even the smallest of his words.

Nothing is as terrifying as what the dawn will bring, so he holds Mary Margaret a little bit tighter, marveling at the fact that the woman in his arms is singlehandedly holding him together. Marveling at how this feels so very, very right and, as he drifts off, why the ring on her middle finger looks so very, very familiar.


	11. Do Overs

_Do Overs_

Gold limps down the sidewalk, watching Ruby place a comforting hand on Granny's shoulder as the older woman dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

He wants to say he doesn't understand their pain, but he sympathizes with David Nolan more he'd like. He knows what it is to lose a child.

"Quite a mess you've made here, dearie," he drawls as he sidles up to Regina who watches the proceedings with barely controlled glee.

Gold's enjoying this, sure – not as much as Regina, perhaps, but he can appreciate the chaos. The sheriff leads the social worker and the girl from the bed and breakfast in the direction of the Nolan's, The Huntsman is carrying the little girl, her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms clasped behind his neck.

The sight makes Gold feel something he hasn't felt in a very, very long time: remorse.

"You know he won't stop. Charming, that is. He'll fight for her. He'll find her." Indeed, the pauper/prince's 'never give up' attitude has always been annoyingly endearing.

"Not necessarily," Regina drawls and immediately alarm bells start going off.

"What's up your sleeve?" He narrows his eyes, his grip tightening on the handle of his cane.

"Something you can help me with, dear."

"And why should I do that," he snaps.

And then Regina says four words that make him reconsider his whole life up until this moment.

"Because I've got _her._"

xxxxxx

Snow picks at the blanket, as she stares at her husband sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed. She's still trying to reconcile the Mary Margaret with her Snow; the impetuosity of one with the cautiousness of the other. While one part of her, a rather loud part, wants nothing more than to pounce on the man in front of her and love him body and soul until he's whole once more, the other part – the rational part – whispers rather unfairly that doing anything of the sort feels almost like cheating on Charming.

She sits up and traces his spine, gliding her fingertips over the muscles she holds tight to when he makes love to her. She wants to call him 'Charming' – she needs to hear him answer to it – but she can't and he won't, so she doesn't even try.

"David," she murmurs against his skin, pressing her lips to the tiny mole over his shoulder blade.

"I know," he responds, despondent.

It's time. They have to get up. They have to say goodbye.

He rubs his eyes and lowers his head once more, exhaling loudly and bracing himself for the day. She feels him tense beneath her touch and she wants nothing more than to save him from this. To save both of them, but she can't.

"I'm sorry," he finally says.

"What for?"

"You barely know me and you're…" he gestures at the air around him, "wrapped up in all of this."

Oh. If only he knew just how wrapped up she is.

"I know you," she quietly replies. "I probably know you better than anyone else."

He turns in her arms and his eyes search her face, perhaps for any insincerity.

"I know you prefer the right side of the bed, and you can't sleep until you know that those you care for are safely tucked away." His eyes widen, but she continues before her courage deserts her. "I know breakfast is your favorite meal of the day and that, despite working in an animal shelter, you're not particularly fond of cats. You like broccoli, but hate green beans. You're a sucker for dessert, and even more so for the women in your life." She places a kiss to the corner of his jaw, dropped in astonishment. "I know you've wanted that little girl for as long as you can remember. And I know, someday, you're going to make a fantastic husband to a wife who loves you, just as you are."

He's silent for a moment, staring at her as if she's the final step in some sort of magic trick, but she remains smiling at him sadly, her heart breaking that her Charming should know her so little. She's not used to being in a relationship so unevenly divided.

"How…?" The rest of the question gets lost in the air that seems to crackle between them.

"In time," she murmurs, as she slides out from behind him and offers her hand. "Come. She's waiting."

xxxxxx

Graham leans against the doorframe, hating himself just a bit more with every piece of clothing Julia Gordon places in Emma's suitcase.

She has made him a party to his best friend's heartbreak and, not for the first time, he curses the duties his badge requires of him.

Deciding that Miss Gordon can handle things herself, he turns and crosses the hall, pausing in the doorway to David's room and inhaling sharply at the sight before him.

Emma is curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, facing away from the door with her blanket in one hand and a wooden sword in the other. But the part that makes Graham ache more than he already does is that she's wearing a red leather jacket that's yet too big for her oh so tiny body.

"Hey, darlin'."

"Mr. Graham?" she sniffs, turning over and wiping a hand across her eyes.

"True enough." He sits on the side of the bed and she immediately crawls into his lap. She's never been particularly affectionate with anyone other than David, and perhaps more recently, Mary Margaret. But she raised her arms to be lifted the moment he came to get her at Granny's, and right now, his is the only friendly face she has, so he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in tight. "None of that," he says, wiping his thumb across her cheek.

"Will you take me away?" she whispers and the words are a dagger to his heart.

"And where shall we go?" He doesn't want to encourage her, but the fantasy is so much easier than life at the moment.

"Far away," she says, closing her eyes. "Wherever David is."

"Silly girl, do you think he'd leave and go far away without taking you with him?"

She shakes her head and a tear splashes on her cheek. "But what happens when they take _me _far away?"

The words come before he even has to think. The truth is like that, he supposes. "Then he'll come get you. Like a princess in a tower."

"Fighting off dragons?" She raises her wooden sword and he tugs sadly on the edge of her jacket.

"And ogres and giants and witches and trolls."

Emma smiles, a moment of joy and light in a day of darkness. But like all things, it doesn't last. Her grins fades and her eyes dim, but she continues to study the wooden sword, quite content to stay in Graham's lap for the time being.

And then she asks the one question that knocks the breath from his lungs.

"Will you take care of him? While I'm gone?"

He's supposed to be the strong one. He's the adult – the _sheriff_ – for god's sake, but he can't even open his mouth, lest what comes out is the anguished noise he's struggling to keep inside. All he can offer is a nod and hope it's enough.

Of course he'll take care of David. David's been taking care of him for long enough.

"Sheriff?"" Miss Gordon pokes her head around the door and Graham is slightly satisfied by the pain that briefly flashes across her face at having to interrupt.

"Is it time?"

"Not yet," she replies, her gaze darting to the child before quickly skirting away. "He's here."

Graham's stomach drops.

David. David is here.

xxxxxx

He already has a tight, almost pained smile on his face, but he has to start faking it now, because if he begins any later, it won't be fortified enough for the moment she appears before him.

He clears his throat and feels Mary Margaret's hand slide into his own. He's never noticed the way people hold hands before. Not really. But with her, he takes note of the way she first blindly reaches for him and then slides her palm down his wrist until their fingers intertwine, like teeth in a zipper. He's never held hands with someone with the intent to never let go.

He's also never felt more like a stranger in the foyer of his own home.

There's a creak of a door hinge and Miss Gordon is the first to appear on the top landing. She looks as though she's aged ten years since he first clapped eyes on her, as he's sure, they all have.

Graham appears next, but his eyes don't stay on the sheriff for long. For in his friend's arms is the girl for whom he'd lay down his life.

"Emma?"

"David?" her blond head pops up from Graham's shoulder and she's immediately wiggling to get out of his arms. He sets her on the floor and she makes it four steps down before launching herself off the staircase, knowing that he'll catch her.

He scoops her up and holds her so tight to his chest, breath hitching as he buries his face in her hair.

"Hey, squirt."

"Hi," she murmurs, holding onto his collar as she wraps her little legs around his waist.

They stay like that for a while, standing in the foyer as he gently rocks her back and forth. No one else speaks; they fade into the walls, allowing the broken man and girl in the middle to have their moment.

"Can you keep me?" she finally whispers and he laughs out a sob.

"I wish I could."

He can feel Mary Margaret's hand on his back. One of them is shaking, or perhaps they both are. Either way, he takes comfort in her touch.

"But," he places her on the ground and kneels down in front of her. "I will come for you. I'll find you. Okay?"

"Promise?"

"I promise." He cups her face in his hands and places a kiss on her forehead. "I will always find you."

Mary Margaret gasps beside him, and he tries to remember to ask her later what it was about those words that made her so upset.

xxxxxx

It's all Regina can do not to lean back and throw her feet up on the desk in contented victory.

She has him. She knows he does. His only weakness other than his son, is this. His Beauty.

She almost rolls her eyes at how saccharine it sounds, but she stays focused on the moment, because Rumpelstiltskin is pacing her office like a prize fighter and she needs to be on her guard.

"What have done to her?"

"For the last time, I haven't _done _anything."

Gold stops and leans on the desk. "What. Do you want. From me."

She leans forward and clasps her perfectly manicured fingers together. "A little 'top up,' shall we say." Off his look, she elaborates. "My curse – the curse _you _gave me, I might add – is weakening. With the brat gone, I'll be free and clear to do a little fortifying."

"Uh, I think you forgot one tiny detail, dearie," he responds with a lilt, and she truly sees the imp's manic glee shining through for a moment. "Magic doesn't exist here."

"Doesn't it?" She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "If she's who you say she is… she _is _magic."

Gold stands once more, granting her an appraising look. "Finally, after all that teaching and studying, something finally sunk in."

"Oh don't think you get to take credit for this. The product of True Love is magic, it's common knowledge."

"It's not actually. So few have it. True Love, that is." He leans forward once more, and she gets a thrill, thoroughly enjoying the wicked game they're playing. "Why should I help you?" he asks, all playfulness gone.

"It would be in her best interest if you do." She waits, letting her words sink in and when he visibly pales, she knows they have.

"If you touch her – " he growls.

"You'll what? Fight for her honor and show her what a _brave _man you are?" It's a low blow, but she's never been one to pull her punches.

His features go tight and he walks to the window, silent save for his harsh inhalations and exhalations as he attempts to calm down.

She has to bite back a chuckle. She does love riling him up.

Finally, he spins and her stomach tightens at finding that manic glee back in his eye. "Fine. A 'top up' you ask for and a 'top up' you shall have."

"Changed your mind so quickly?" she asks, looking for the signature catch.

"It's not time yet," he whispers, giving her a smile that unsettles her more than anything else he's ever done. "I'll reset your curse. Myself included."

"And why would you do that?"

"Am I to be given any other choice? Living 22 more years in ignorance is better than spending those 22 knowing Belle is at your mercy."

"Ah, the imp does have a heart." She raises an eyebrow.

"And it's subject to bruising. But you would know all about that, wouldn't you, dearie."

Her smirk disappears and she stands abruptly, but he cuts her off before she can open her mouth.

"The Huntsman keeps his deputy. Let Mr. Nolan have his single life."

"You're bargaining?" Her tone is surprised.

"I assure you, the loneliness will take a far greater toll than a loveless marriage. Especially now that the Charming you buried and the David Nolan you're about to, have tasted such happiness before."

Regina considers for a moment. "Snow doesn't get to keep the dog."

Gold rolls his eyes. "Ruthless to the very core, aren't you. Even letting a poor animal suffer."

They're playing a carefully crafted game of chess and he's trying to get her off course.

"Why not ask for Belle?"

He scoffs. "Would you actually part with her? You'll hold her over my head until you get exactly what you want. So I'll help you. I'll forget for the time being, but not forever." His smile fades and he steps closer to her, invading her personal space. "The curse will break. One day, it will. And on that day, I'll come for her. And god help you if you stand in my way."

She narrows her eyes, knowing he means every word, and yet careful not to play her hand as she nods towards the door.

"Better hurry. You'll want to catch True Love's progeny before she leaves."

xxxxxx

It's all Snow can do to not break down sobbing right then and there.

David tries to get Emma to put on the coat that actually fits her, but she refuses to part with the red leather jacket that's currently engulfing her tiny body. It's a testament to how precious it is to her, but for David, it's making it harder to do what he has to do and he's already attempting the impossible.

"Baby, please."

"No! I want to wear it."

"Okay," he whispers and she knows his voice can't attempt anything more than that at the moment.

She places a hand on his back as he kneels in front of Emma, briefly meeting Graham's heartbroken gaze as he holds her little suitcase in his hand.

"You got your blanket?" David asks and Emma nods. "How about your swords?"

She holds them up, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground along with the rest of the items she refuses to relinquish.

"What if you kept one?" she quietly asks, hopeful gaze darting between Snow and David. "It's silly for me to have two. You haven't taught me how to fight yet, so I can't play with anyone else until I play with you."

The logic is sound, yet Snow is sure Emma's just managed to shatter everyone in the room. David hangs his head and Snow grips the back of his neck, no longer able to fight the tears that stream down her face.

"Okay," David finally manages. "I'll keep one. But just for you." He takes the wooden sword she offers and does a little bow.

Snow laughs through her tears and watches as her husband zips their daughter into her coat and places a lingering kiss on her forehead.

"You'll be good for Miss Gordon, right?"

Emma nods and turns to glance at the woman where she stands next to Graham. It seems to jolt something in her, a reminder that David is not the only one she's leaving and she runs over to the sheriff and throws her arms around his leg.

"I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, darlin'. But it's not goodbye."

"No. It's goodnight," she replies and he chuckles, leaning down to place a kiss on her head.

"Goodnight, then."

She moves to Snow next and Snow truly isn't sure if she's capable of handling this.

"Bye, Miss Blanchard."

Snow kneels down and cups Emma's face in her hands, recognizing her chin and her nose and Charming's eyes and his hair. She has so little time to categorize the features they've passed on. This is her daughter, she needs more. She needs forever.

"Bye, sweetheart." She scoops her into her arms, trying not to think about the last time she held her this tightly. But with that blond hair in her face and that blanket squeezed between them, _that day _is all Snow can see.

"_You have to take her. You have to take the baby to the wardrobe." _

"I'll see you soon." She swallows hard and taps her nose. "Keep reading."

"But I don't know how."

Snow brushes her cheek against Emma's, whispering a promise she knows she might not be able to keep. "I'll teach you."

Emma pulls away and smiles, and it's a sight Snow catalogues for future use, burning it into her brain to pull out again on dark nights. She hastily wipes at her face and attempts to pull it together for the hardest goodbye of all, as Emma makes her way back over to David, full circle, and crashes into his chest.

"I love you," he whispers.

"Love you, too," she replies.

Internally Snow is screaming at Emma to kiss him, but she can't push it. She's _so close _though. She just has to turn her head and press those tiny lips to his scruffy cheek, and she'll have her father back. Her real one.

But Snow doesn't and Emma pulls away, unable to say anything else, not even a farewell.

After all, there's no good in goodbye.

xxxxxx

Gold is waiting near the parked car in front of the Nolan's house. It belongs to the social worker, and barring any miracles, she won't be leaving without Charming's girl in tow.

So he bides his time, ignoring the fact that he's not actually looking forward to what he's been tasked to do. Normally causing mischief and mayhem is his modus operandi, but not today. Not with them. He never thought he'd feel anything more than childish disdain and passing annoyance for Prince Charming, but he's been in these shoes and he does not envy the man one bit.

Eventually the door opens and the brunette with the glasses walks out, followed by the little girl bearing her father's features. He briefly wonders why Charming and Snow don't follow, before realizing that they probably can't. They can't actually witness her drive away.

The social worker and the girl make it halfway down the path before either notices him, and when they do, Emma hides behind the woman's legs.

"It's all right," he beckons her to him and she comes haltingly. The woman watches him like a hawk as she holds what little belongings Emma has.

"You don't want to leave, do you?"

She shakes her head.

"Don't worry, you'll be back."

"I will?"

"Indeed. You're very important," he whispers conspiratorially and her eyes gain the sparkle they lost. "So chin up, dearie, yes?" he asks, tapping her on the chin and feeling the burst of tingling warmth that shoots up his arm.

She nods as he flexes his fingers, feeling the raw magic glide beneath his skin.

Yes, that'll do nicely.

xxxxxx

"Is it done?" Regina asks as she saunters up to where Gold watches the car drive off with the savior in tow.

"It's not much," he responds, glancing at his hand, "but it's enough."

"Good."

"_You._" The voice is raw, vibrating with pure anger, and they turn to find Charming standing in the doorway. "You did this," he seethes, staring at the mayor. "You called them."

"David," Mary Margaret starts, but he's already off the porch in one leap and stalking down the path.

"What lies did you tell them? Hm? What did you say I did to have them take her away?"

It's as shattered as she's ever seen him and she's certainly broken him before. She spares a glance for Mary Margaret and Graham as they hurry down the path and flank David on either side.

"Oh don't worry, dear," she begins, the words as familiar as if she spoke them only yesterday, "in a few moments, you won't remember you knew her. Let alone loved her."

"You bitch," Mary Margaret whispers and, for a moment, Regina is completely thrown. But then, understanding passes across her face and her stunned expression slides into a satisfied smile. Well. Things just got more interesting.

"Snow, I presume."

Snow proves her assumptions correct when she pales, but David's anguish keeps him from cluing into the fact that something about the conversation is a little _off._

"What did I ever do to you?!" he demands.

"You made her happy!" Regina spits out and Snow sways. Indirectly hurting her is just as satisfying as directly hurting him. An added benefit.

Luckily for both of them, this pain is only temporary.

Snow's eyes dart between Gold and Regina and she closes them. "Of course," she whispers. "You're going to fix this, aren't you."

Regina doesn't deign to answer; she merely raises an eyebrow.

Snow nods and laces her fingers through David's. Only then does he seem to snap out of whatever murder plots he'd been mulling over in his head as he gazed at the mayor; and Regina watches as Snow steps forward, tugging David down closer.

"Find me," she whispers, her lips grazing his cheek and leaving a lasting burn.

Part of Regina, the part that she buried long, long ago aches at the intimate sight.

But she's past that. She's _stronger _than that. And with a nod to Gold, she takes his hand and blows her breath across it. Purple mist floats on the breeze and hits the three in front of her, leaving them with nothing but glazed eyes and vacant expressions.

"They'll wake in a few minutes, with the memory of a lovely conversation about the change in the weather," Regina simply says, taking Gold's arm and leading him towards the diner. "Now for the rest."

She brushes off her hands as if she'd actually gotten them dirty.

In a way, she had.

xxxxxx

Julia Gordon expects David Nolan to contest the decision, or even to call, but nothing comes. She wants to ask why he gave up so easily on the little girl he could barely say goodbye to, but when she searches for his phone number, his file is nowhere to be found.

And when she decides to drive through the dreary town that gave Emma her brightest days, she finds that she no longer knows the way.

xxxxxx

Time passes and yet it doesn't.

Gold walks down the street with a limp and a lonely gaze.

Kathryn signs the divorce papers when they come, claiming 'irreconcilable differences.'

Graham brings donuts to the station and finds himself in the mayor's bed at least three times a week.

Mary Margaret cradles birds in her palms and teaches the importance of finding one's way home.

David wraps the holster around his back with practiced ease and his wedding ring gathers dust in his bedside drawer.

Regina approves paperwork for projects that never get completed, and presides over her town with a sense of relieved satisfaction that wasn't there before.

And twelve years later, eighteen-year-old Emma Swan wraps a worn leather jacket around her thin frame and jams the keys into the car's ignition.

"It's you and me, kid," she whispers to her non-existent baby bump, before bringing the yellow bug to life. She exhales deeply, briefly wondering what the hell she's actually doing, before closing her eyes and pointing blindly to a map.

Her finger lands and her eyes open, wincing as she glances down to see her fate.

Huh.

Maine.

Maine sounds nice.


	12. Beginnings

**Wow, so that's what it looks like to piss off an entire fandom! Goodness gracious, me. **

**Look. Here's the thing. I don't like explaining my decisions, but I'm going to anyway. This was always the plan. And some of you think that Snow was OOC for not fighting for Emma, but she wasn't. Think about it. She was the only one awake. She let Emma go with the assumption that they'd get her right back. Perhaps the old fashioned way, but back all the same. She had NO idea that Regina would curse them all again. She assumed this was a temporary separation, which she allowed, because she didn't want to jeopardize Charming (who P.S. still had no clue who he really was), or the rest of their friends for that matter. She made a quick decision that she thought was in the best interest of everyone. Not just herself. That's who Snow is. **

**Plus, if Emma had a happy childhood, she wouldn't be OUR Emma, now would she. **

**So, with that said, this is going out to ****DragonofAwesomeness, who charmingly told me to "update soon, so I can see if I like it." **

**xo**

_Beginnings_

Portland was nice, but she wants to see what Bar Harbor is all about. Maybe even hop a boat to Nova Scotia, if she actually had a passport.

But after having to stop to fend off nausea for the third time in the last hour, she's beginning to think that driving is overrated. Much like eating.

"Come on, kid. Cut me some slack," she murmurs, rubbing her hand across the barely visible bump beneath her sweater as she passes a road sign. Ten more miles until the next town.

It's late. Her car clock informs her it's 9:02pm, but it hasn't been reliable in all the time she's had it and she doesn't wear a watch. Not since… well. She just doesn't. So for all she knows, it could two in the morning but her body constantly feels tired, so even her internal clock is on the fritz.

The air is damp, causing the roads to shine in the moonlight and mist to fog up her windshield, but she can still make out the sign welcoming her to Storybrooke.

Storybrooke. Seriously?

Beggars can't be choosers, though, and she turns the car onto Main St. and briefly wonders if she's wandered into some sort of ghost town. No one is out, the stores are all shuttered – perhaps it's later than she initially thought.

She doesn't see much in the way of lodging and she briefly contemplates moving on to the next town, but she's _so _tired and her car is stuttering and really, now is not the best time for engine failure.

"Come on, come on, don't do this," she pleads to the dashboard, which merely mocks her in return with its falling speedometer. "No, no, no, I'm sorry I cursed you out earlier! Please?"

But it putters to a stop and she has just enough momentum to steer it flush against the curb.

"Fantastic," she mutters, leaning forward and resting her forehead on the wheel. "Just wonderful."

Sighing, she glances at her pitiful excuse for a bag in the backseat. It's been used as a pillow more times than she cares to admit, but it's a few rungs up from the park bench she once used after having a little too much fun at a friend's party. Acquaintance, more like.

Resigned to her fate, she unbuckles her seatbelt and gets out, shivering in the cool Maine air as she opens the back door and shoves her belongings over. Frankly, she's so tired that her bug's leather seat will feel like a bed at the Four Seasons. Grabbing a sweater from her bag, she pulls it over her head and drapes another over her legs, cursing herself for not investing in a blanket yet. You'd think she would have learned her lesson by now.

It doesn't take her long to drift off. The noise of the breeze banging the sailboat halyards against theirs masts is its own kind of lullaby, but though sleep comes easy, it doesn't last for long.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

She groans and rolls over, nearly rolling into the leg space between her back and front seat.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

"Ugh, what?" she groans, peeking an eye open to find a man standing outside her car, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Good evening to you too," comes his muffled voice through the glass and he gestures with a finger for her to roll the window down.

She stares at him for a moment, having the craziest feeling that she's seen him before. It's this, more than any fear that makes her hesitate before complying. Then she sees the badge on his chest catch the moonlight and she's quick roll the window down.

"Hi," he greets.

"Hi," she replies.

He's smiling in a way that seems to say he's amused and yet concerned. It's a nice change of pace from the cops she used to run into who were all gruff replies and grumpy faces.

"What's your name?"

"Emma. Emma Swan."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Swan," he says, sticking his hand through the window. "I'm David, the deputy here."

"Oh." She's not sure what else to say, so she waits for him to take her cue.

"New to town?"

She gestures to the bags that litter her backseat. "How could you tell?"

"We don't get a lot of visitors. Plus, you know, you're sleeping in your car." He grins at her and she's not sure why, but she's incredibly comforted by the expression.

"It broke down."

"Huh." He flashes a light towards her dashboard. "Old model. I'll have Michael come pick it up in the morning." Off her look, he says, "He's the mechanic. Owns Tillman's."

She barely has the cash for food and gas let alone an overhaul, which her beat up car is sure to need. But before she can voice these concerns, David is speaking again.

"Look, I was on my way home. The only B&B in town is closed and I have a spare bedroom. Why don't you crash with me tonight?"

"Excuse me?" She's not sure which to be more shocked at, the offer itself or the sincerity behind it.

"I'm a cop," he defends, pointing to the badge on his jacket. "Come on, you're what – 17? 18?"

She glares, knowing he hit the nail right on the head and he chuckles.

"Which is it?"

"18," she mutters.

"Right. Come on." He steps back and it takes her a moment to realize he expects her to open the door. He's not presumptuous enough to do it for her. "I have central heating," he coaxes and the thought of burying herself under a heap of blankets on a soft bed finally breaks her.

"Okay." She opens the door and steps out on shaky legs. "Okay."

"Okay," he parrots, before gesturing to the backseat. "Do you want to bring it all? You're welcome to."

"No, no, it's okay. I just need…" she grabs her duffle bag, quickly unzipping it to make sure the blanket is inside, before pulling it from the car. "Just this."

He's quick to take it for her, gesturing with his free hand to the cruiser that idles just behind her car. She slides into the passenger seat, an utterly novel thing. It's weird to ride in a police cruiser and not be manhandled into the back.

"So, Miss Swan, where are you coming from?"

"Phoenix."

He stares at her for a moment longer than he probably should and the car swerves a bit. "Arizona? Did you drive all the way here?"

"Almost."

He laughs, impressed, and she finds it so odd to feel so comfortable with a complete stranger. A stranger whose laugh she swears she's heard before.

"This is it," he announces as he pulls up in front of a two-story home.

"You live here by yourself?" she asks, because it's the most space she's ever seen one person live in before, but that's not why she keeps staring. It's like she's seen it in a dream, the details of which are just out of her reach.

"My ex-wife used to live here with me," he says, breaking her concentration.

"Oh." She curses her ability to stick her foot in her mouth. "Sorry."

"Don't be. We're friendly." He smiles as he gets out and pulls her bag from the back.

"Do you often take in strays?" she asks wryly as he leads her onto the porch, unlocking the front door.

"Don't get many strays in this town." He flicks on a light and something aches within her at how warm it all feels. The pale yellow walls and the couch's inviting cushions.

"Up here. You'll probably want to get straight to bed, seeing as I so rudely interrupted your sleep."

"What time is it anyway?"

"You don't want to know."

She follows him up the stairs and pauses in the doorway of the room he leads her to, inhaling sharply.

_Overwhelmed by the shadows in the corners of the room she hasn't memorized yet. _

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I just…" she trails off and runs a finger down the pale green wall, "I'm having a bit of déjà vu. Stupid, really…"

"It's not stupid," he says, looking at her seriously. "Not stupid at all."

She smiles softly at his words and gestures awkwardly to the bed. "I should…"

"Yes, of course. Sorry it's small. I'm not sure what we were thinking, getting a twin bed for a guest room."

She scoffs. "You're talking to a girl you just pulled from the back seat of her car. Trust me, the twin bed is an upgrade."

"Right. Well," he points behind him, "towels are in the hall closet, bathroom's to the right, and… if you need anything, I'm just across the hall."

With a smile and a nod, he heads out the door, but not before she blurts out a "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

She brushes her teeth and sinks into the bed, allowing the mattress and blue blankets to mold perfectly to her form.

Odd.

It's as if it was made for her.

xxxxxx

Oh my god, she's never hugged a toilet so hard in her life.

It's 6am, or so the bedside clock told her, and the child in her stomach is apparently going through his teenage rebellious phase sixteen years too early. All she can think about is how it's remotely possible for so much stuff to come out of such a relatively small person.

"You're pregnant," comes a murmur from the doorway and she raises her head just high enough to see David standing there in pajama pants and a t-shirt.

"What gave me away?"

A pained look crosses his face as another wave of nausea sends her back to the porcelain. Her stomach muscles are squeezing her dry and she doesn't even recall eating this much yesterday, but before she can think about the inner workings of her body any further, she hears the sink turn on before her hair is being lifted off the back of her neck and a cool, wet washcloth is placed on her skin.

She moans and rests her forehead on her arm, utterly spent.

"You're great, but please go away."

"What? Why?" His voice is scratchy from sleep, yet he doesn't let go of her hair.

"I don't want you to see me like this."

"Trust me, I've seen worse."

She peeks an eye open and raises an eyebrow. "Doubtful."

"You try pulling Leroy from The Rabbit Hole after last call."

"I have no idea what you just said," she groans and he chuckles.

"Don't worry about it."

Silence descends, but she's terrified to move, lest it upset whatever inner balance she's managed to attain. He stays because she stays, and despite what she says, she's grateful.

"How far along are you?"

"Fifteen weeks." It seems so little in the long run, knowing she has to get to forty, but that's three and a half months that she's hasn't been alone, and it's her longest stretch so far.

"Do you know what it is?" There's something in his voice, something broken yet carefully hidden that brings her gaze to his once more.

"No. Not yet. I don't…" she inhales deeply. "I don't know if I want to find out."

"No?" He lets go of her hair and leans against the tub, genuinely curious. And she finds that she wants to tell him. She wants to open up to him, because carrying this burden alone is too much to bear, especially so early in the morning.

"I might not keep it."

"Oh." It's quiet, but free of judgment. She's grateful for that too.

"Sorry I woke you."

"Don't worry about it. You okay?"

She nods, holding the washcloth on the back of her neck.

"I am now, thanks," she says, as he stands and bids her goodnight, even though light is already peeking over the trees.

She had a social worker once who always told her fate would intervene. It seemed like a bunch of bullshit at the time, but sitting on the cold tiled floor, she wonders.

The washcloth is now lukewarm and her stomach is still roiling, but the most pressing matter is how on earth she ended up here, in the home of the deputy of Storybrooke's finest.

And why, _why _does she feel like she's been here before?

xxxxxx

Bacon.

She smells bacon. And it might very well be the most beautiful scent she's ever experienced.

It brings her out of bed and down the stairs, almost as if in a trance – like those cartoons she used to watch as a kid.

"Morning, sunshine."

She snaps out of it to find David flipping pancakes on the griddle and a plate of freshly made bacon on the table.

"You did all this?"

He shrugs. "I like breakfast."

She's doing everything but drooling as she stares at the spread, and the drooling is a near thing.

"When was the last time you had a proper meal?" he asks.

The question catches her off guard and she suspects she looks rather like a deer in headlights.

"I don't – I…" her stuttering is enough of an answer and he gestures to the seat with a spatula.

"Sit."

She complies as she rubs her stomach, her nausea having been replaced with near ravenous hunger. She steals a piece of bacon and pops it into her mouth. It's all she can do not to moan.

"What time is it?"

"Almost one."

"In the _afternoon_?"

"You needed the sleep."

"But… don't you have, like, adult things to do?"

He laughs as he flips the pancakes onto a plate. "I had the nightshift last night. I'll go in at 3pm. Graham will take over later."

"Graham?"

"The sheriff."

"Ah, your boss."

"More like coconspirator," David mutters, and off Emma's look, he says, "We tend to get into trouble."

"How? You're the police."

"Police gotta answer to someone."

It's a sentence that leaves her a little unsettled, as if knowing that the man in front of her gets reprimanded upsets her somehow.

"It's the way of the world," he continues, placing the heaping plate of pancakes in front of her with a little flourish.

"Banana. I hope that's okay." He suddenly looks worried. "I probably should have asked first. I'm sorry, I can make up another – "

She grabs his arm if only to stop him talking. "Banana's fine! It's my favorite, actually."

"Really," he says, eyeing her curiously. "Mine too."

Conversation is a little awkward; the weather comes up a few times. But damn if they aren't the best banana pancakes she's ever had.

xxxxxx

Michael Tillman tells them it'll be at least six days for the car.

David turns to her and raises his eyebrows, as if to say, "I'm game if you are."

She shrugs, hoping he interprets the "It's up to you" in the gesture.

And he seems to, because when he turns back to Michael Tillman, he says they'll be back in a week.

She's not quite sure what she just agreed to, but the baby within her seemed to like David's pancakes and frankly, that's good enough for her.


	13. Requests

**Sorry for the wait! This is going out to all of you for making me feel aw shucks special. xo**

_Requests_

"You mean there's a girl," Graham says as he spoons another bite of rocky road into his mouth, "staying at your place… just because she wanted to," she finishes, mouth full.

"Sort of."

"You didn't have to bribe her or anything."

"No!"

"Well it's about bloody time."

"Ugh." David picks up the nearest object and tosses it at Graham. "She's _eighteen_! And pregnant, by the way!"

"Oi!" Graham yells as he ducks the flying roll of tape. "It was a joke. At ease."

David narrows his eyes as he takes another swig of his beer. Someone is technically supposed to be on duty, and since Graham is the only one not imbibing, it looks like he's drawn the short straw. It also looks like he has something semi-serious to say, if the way he fidgets in his seat and won't meet David's gaze is any indication.

"It's just that…" the sheriff starts.

"Yes?"

"You haven't had one."

"What?"

"A girl."

"Christ, Graham."

"What! I mean it."

"And you have?" It's a low blow but they both know the mayor is not exactly a serious or respectful relationship. She's a bone of contention between the men and David only brings it up because he cares.

It's to Graham's credit that he doesn't argue; merely holds the pint of ice cream out and waves it around. "Want some?"

David lifts his beer bottle. "If forced to choose between the ice cream and the booze, I'm going with the latter."

"Spoilsport."

"Hello?" comes a voice from the hall and both David and Graham immediately sit up, knocking some paperwork off in the process. "David?"

_Emma._

"In here!" he yells, swigging the rest of his beer and chucking the bottle in the bin.

"Dude," Graham whispers as she enters.

"Eighteen," David reminds, kicking Graham under the table.

"Ow, hi," the sheriff groans, standing with a limp and reaching out a hand. "Graham. Sheriff."

"Yeah, the badge kind of gave it away. Emma," she says, taking his hand and looking a little overwhelmed as she glances around the station. "So this is where you work?"

"Glad you found it." David stands and doesn't quite know what to do next, so he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, the, uh – the _interestingly_ dressed waitress at the diner gave me directions."

"That would be Ruby," David chuckles as he gestures for her to take his seat.

"Oh, no, no, I just… I didn't know when you'd be home and I thought the least I could do would be to cook dinner. If that's okay."

And she looks so hesitant, as if already awaiting rejection. Her shoulders are up near her ears, bracing for the inevitable blow, but David smiles, feeling warmth bloom in his chest at the thought of her wanting to cook for them.

And so lost is he in his thoughts that he almost doesn't hear Graham say, "Any cooking is better than his."

"Hey," David replies, mildly affronted. "You didn't complain last time."

"Well, " Graham scoffs, "macaroni and cheese is hard to botch."

Emma snorts in her effort to hide her chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough. David claps her gently on the back and she offers him an embarrassed smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Meaning, 'Am I having any more Exorcist episodes?' No."

"Good," he replies, and he's glad for sure, but something about that particular phrasing irks him.

_"Oh no, is Emma sick?"_

_"Or she's turned into the girl from The Exorcist."_

"David?"

"Yeah?" he snaps back to attention to find Emma and Graham looking at him oddly. "Sorry, what?"

Emma looks almost hopeful and terrified as she repeats her question. "I asked if pasta was okay."

"Oh. Pasta's great," he replies, swallowing hard and wondering why on earth this girl affects him so. He just wants to wrap her up and tuck her away. Away from the cruelty of the world and away from a fate that leaves her pregnant and alone at 18.

Graham gives him a '_what the hell is wrong with you' _look as David grabs his jacket off the back of the chair.

"Actually, I'm heading out too. Come on, we can go grocery shopping together."

Emma smiles, and David's pretty sure he'd move heaven and hell just to see her smile again. "Okay."

It's been 24 hours.

He's in so much trouble.

xxxxxx

_I like him. He talks funny. _

Emma shakes her head as David holds the door open for her and they step out into the cool night air. It's weird, being almost… settled. Maybe not settled, because she has no intention of staying, but perhaps 'stopped' is the better word. She hasn't really stopped anywhere before. Always on the move. And even if it is only a week, it's six days longer than she's had in any other place.

She slides into the passenger side of David's truck and somewhere in the back of her mind, she notices he doesn't put the gear into 'reverse' until her seatbelt is buckled. She's not sure if that's the cop in him or just the David in him.

He's been so kind. So generous. And she automatically feels guilty at accepting handouts – at being a burden. That's something that she just can't do.

"I really can check in at the bed and breakfast," she murmurs, feeling the guilt and shame sit on her chest like a weight.

For his part, David looks at her as though she's just announced she's joining the circus. "Don't be ridiculous. Though I'm sure Granny'll give you a deal, it's still money. You can stay with me for free." She eyes him skeptically and he raises his hands. "No strings attached."

"No it's – it's not that." It's not strings; it has nothing to do with strings. Though she doesn't know him, she has a feeling that most things with David are transparent. "I just don't want to intrude."

He glances sideways at her as he turns into the parking lot. "You're not intruding. Like you said, it's a big house for just one."

"Still…"

"You're not used to this, are you." It's a statement, not a question.

"To what?"

"Somebody giving you something and not expecting anything in return." He's pulling into the parking slip and therefore doesn't see the brief crack in her veneer. The slip of emotion that tightens her throat and sets her eyes stinging.

Her first impulse is to lie. To say something along the lines of 'I don't know what you're talking about' to protect the soft heart she's put defense after defense in front of. But one look at David and she finds the untruth fading from her lips.

"No. I'm not used to it."

"Hm," he says, nodding slightly as he throws the truck into 'park.' "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we."

xxxxxx

He tears around the grocery store like a man on a mission and she's left staring in the middle of pasta aisle, utterly overwhelmed by the options. They make 100% whole grain rotini in individual packets? Seriously?

"Onions, mushrooms, garlic, and basil," David announces as he dumps them into the cart at her side. "As requested." He stares at her staring at the pasta. "You all right?"

"There are _so many_. What happened to just generic penne?"

"Close your eyes and pick one," he responds and she doesn't know if she wants to please him, or if he just brings out the goofy side in her, but she closes her eyes, reaches out, and rather gracelessly knocks a box from the shelf.

"Alphabet," he reads as he picks it up from the ground.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," she mutters, but he merely shrugs, rather delighted by the turn of events and puts it in the cart.

And she kind of loves him for that.

"Onwards!" he dramatically intones, unsheathing an imaginary sword and pointing it in the direction of the cereal aisle.

And when he drops a box of Lucky Charms in the basket, because he remembered her mentioning that it was her favorite, all thoughts of heading to Granny's leave her mind.

xxxxxx

He's pretty sure they've made enough pasta to feed a minor army.

"I think I was supposed to halve the recipe," she says. "It's makes four servings. We were only two."

"Technically three," he responds offhandedly, elbow deep in dishwater.

It's her silence that makes him turn his head, and he finds her staring at him like she's trying to keep up a poker face and failing miserably.

"You all right?"

"Uh huh." Her voice is high and reedy, and she might be many things, but he knows 'all right' is definitely not one of them.

He continues to scrub the pan, trying to figure out the enigma of the girl currently clearing the table. A pregnant loner with deep trust issues and a fondness for Lucky Charms. If it's all he had to go on, it would have been enough.

"The shame of it is, I'm just gonna be puking this all up tomorrow."

He chuckles. "Enjoy it while you can, then."

Her laugh turns into a yawn, but still she picks up the dishtowel and dries the plates he's washed.

"You should rest," he murmurs.

"I can handle a few dishes."

"Of that I have no doubt," he says, even as he removes the towel from her hand. "Go."

"Fine," she groans, sitting at the table and crossing her legs to rub at a swollen ankle. "Where were you born?"

The question throws him for a second, but what throws him even more is that he has to take a moment to think about. "Uh, here. Born and raised."

"Really?" She can't hide her judgment and he laughs, nodding his head.

"I know. Kinda sad, isn't it."

"No, it's… nice." There's a wistfulness to her tone and David shuts the water off, if only to hear her better. "It must be nice to have someplace that's definitively 'home,' you know?"

He turns and dries his hands on the towel, before slinging it over his shoulder. "Yeah," he replies, but the image in his mind and the feeling in his gut tell him he's not talking about Storybrooke.

"What were your parents like?" she asks and he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. What _were _they like?

"They died when I was young. My father first, my mother second."

"I'm sorry," she quietly replies and he sees an unguarded look of understanding on her face.

"I don't really remember my father, but my mother was kind. She lit candles when I had nightmares."

And suddenly the look of understanding on her face pales considerably.

"My father did that too."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, he wasn't my father. I don't think he was." She shakes her head as if trying to wrap her mind around what she's attempting to say. "I never knew my biological parents. But there was a man…" She stares hard at the table, as if willing the words to comes.

"What was he like?" David softly asks, because something inside him is telling him he needs to know the answer.

"I can't remember," she says and her voice breaks. "He took me to the ducks."

Neither says anything for a moment, too lost in memories that seem undeniably coincidental.

"You know, I think I will have that rest," Emma finally says and indeed, she looks as if the past five minutes have taken a toll.

"Yeah, go ahead," he replies after a moment. "Thank you for dinner."

"Thank you for cleaning." She spares him one last searching glance before disappearing into the living room.

He leaves to bring Graham some leftovers at the station, and when he gets back, he finds Emma passed out on the couch. He smiles and takes a moment to stare, praying she doesn't wake up because he has no good excuse for why he can't seem to look away from her peaceful face. So young. So alone. Just a child having a child.

He takes the blanket from the chair and carefully drapes it on her, but as he tucks it up close to her chin, she grabs his wrist. _Hard. _

"Whoa, hey. It's me," he whispers.

"What're you doing?"

"I was…" he nods to the blanket still in his hand, "I was afraid you'd get cold."

"Oh." She studies the blanket, but even David knows she was genuinely frightened a moment before. "Thanks."

"Do you want to head upstairs?"

"Right here is fine," she mumbles, already half asleep.

"Sweet dreams," he whispers, placing a candle and matchbook on the coffee table.

Just in case.

xxxxxx

She complains of back pain in the morning (after her 6am date with the toilet) and she knows that when she settles on the couch to read a book that next night, she's just asking for punishment.

But it doesn't happen, because the next thing she knows, she's being lifted up and her subconscious must know who's carrying her because, this time, she makes no move to stop him.

"What're you doin'?"

"You fell asleep," he whispers.

And she can only make a small noise of contentment as she presses her face into his neck and allows him to put her to bed.

xxxxxx

On day four, he regrets leaving Emma alone so many evenings and so he asks Graham to stop by.

"Just keep her company for a bit."

Graham looks somewhat terrified at being left alone with a pregnant eighteen-year-old, and Emma's looking at the sheriff like he's the dartboard and she's got the darts.

This is a potentially disastrous idea.

But he comes home some three hours later to find the credits on an old movie rolling, an empty pizza box on the coffee table, and an abandoned game of Monopoly on the floor. And on the couch, Emma lies passed out with her feet propped up on a pillow in Graham's lap, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn between them.

He doesn't have the heart to wake them up – not yet – but he does take a picture, which he may or may not be planning to post on the station bulletin board.

Eventually, David gently shakes Graham awake and promptly puts a finger to his lips, silently telling him to be quiet. Graham's befuddled as he slowly takes in his surroundings, but when his eyes land on Emma, an amused smile graces his face as he carefully lifts her feet off his lap.

"She cheats at Monopoly," he whispers and David has to bite back a laugh.

"She beat you, didn't she."

"Maybe."

True to his word, the picture shows up on the board two days later.

Graham doesn't take it down.

xxxxxx

On day seven, Emma leaves Tillman's with semi-bad news. The car will take longer – they need an extra part. But if she's perfectly honest with herself, she's not all that heartbroken about it.

Despite initial impressions, she likes this town. She likes the small streets and the family-owned businesses, the docks and the ducks.

She really likes the ducks.

She pulls her leather jacket around her tighter as she makes her way to the station. She wants to tell David sooner rather than later that he'll be stuck with her company for a few days longer than they anticipated.

But when she makes her way into the bullpen, she pulls up short at what she sees.

David's sitting at his desk, cheek propped up in the palm of his hand as he reads a book with a furrowed brow. But not just any book, no. This is a book that's haunted Emma from every shelf she's seen it on.

_What to Expect When You're Expecting._

She opens her mouth to ask if she's really seeing what she's seeing, but her voice gets lodged behind the rather large lump in her throat and the question dies on her lips.

"Don't," Graham whispers behind her and she jumps nearly a foot, but makes no sound. "He'll be so embarrassed to know you caught him."

"How long has he had that?"

Graham shrugs. "A day. He got it in case you hung around longer."

"Must be psychic. Car's not ready," she mutters without any real disappointment. And Graham knows it.

"Glad you're stickin' around, darlin'." He brushes past her but she grabs his arm, because she needs one last reassurance. One last piece of proof that all this could be real.

"He really got that for me?"

Graham snorts. "Well he certainly didn't get it for me."

Huh.

She waits five more minutes, watching him flip the page and worry his lip, before she tells him that the car isn't ready.

And she's pretty sure the smile she receives in return could jump start any engine in a ten mile radius.

xxxxxx

Sixteen days later and the thought of her leaving is nearly unbearable.

The car's ready. They got the call last night and have been oddly quiet ever since. She's early to wake and he's slow to cook, as if each is savoring the time they have left. She doesn't even complain when the nausea hits her and he's waiting at the bathroom door with a wet washcloth and a hair tie.

She allows him to pull her hair back and loop it messily. Despite his best efforts, it's still crooked and she can't help but chuckle as she catches her reflection in the mirror, before she splashes water on her face.

"I'm sure you'll get it eventually. Practice makes perfect."

The words sound familiar as she utters them, and David freezes attempting to remember something from so long ago. Those words, in another voice. In another time. Even Emma seems to be a little shaken by them.

"What if you stayed a little longer?" he blurts out, and the panic he feels immediately throws the cold temperature of the tile beneath him and the constant drip of the faucet into sharp relief. It's all he can hear and feel as he stares at her from the floor, awaiting her response.

"How longer?" she asks, turning and leaning against the sink. There's something in her voice that gives him strength, though. That makes him think perhaps this isn't the most insane idea in the world.

"Forever," he replies.

xxxxxx

_Well_, she thinks.

That's quite a request.


	14. Interludes Part I

**Don't get excited, this is not Chapter 14! **

**I had a lot of people request more time with David and Baby!Emma, so I've been posting "Missing Pieces" on tumblr and decided to compile the ones I have so far here for you non-tumblr users. Each section is its own little scene. **

**So I apologize, this post does not contain Emma's answer to the question David asked last chapter. But I hope you have as much fun reading them as I had writing them. **

**And I wrote Part I into the title in case people dig it, and would like to see more. **

_Interludes Part I_

"David?"

He glances up from the book in his lap to find her standing in his doorway, practically drowning his oversized t-shirt.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I can't fall asleep."

He chuckles. "I can see that. C'mere." He pats the bed next to him and she's quick to scurry across the carpet. It's take her two tries to hook her foot over the thick comforter, but he scoops her under her elbows and deftly lifts her up.

"Anything bothering you?" he asks, as he tucks her under his arm and settles back against the pillow.

"No."

He places a kiss on her head and runs his fingers through her hair, carefully broaching the next question. "Is it the nightmares? Are you afraid to fall asleep?"

But his fears are for naught, because her answer comes so simply. "Not if you're here."

Oh. So that's what it's like, to have someone trust you so implicitly.

He places another kiss on her head, and continues to stroke her hair, returning to his book as she settles deeper into the crook of his arm, content to just _be._

He tells himself he'll read just two more chapters, but then Emma's breathing evens out and he settles for just finishing one. Her grip on his shirt loosens, but doesn't release, and it's not until the next morning, when he wakes with a book on his chest and a girl burrowed into his side that he realizes he didn't even finish the page.

xxxxxx

"Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?" he asks, holding up three separate pints of ice cream.

"All of them," she replies, definitively.

"All of them?" The strawberry falls to the counter first, followed quickly by the chocolate. "David'll kill me if I give you all of them."

"Nuh uh. He likes you."

Oh the logic of a child.

"For the time being," Graham mutters.

Until he comes home to find the fort they've built in the middle of the living room out of every single clean piece of linen the closet had to offer. Until his child is passed out under it all, face covered in some sort of Neapolitan ice cream masterpiece.

Her face scrunches in an adorable pout as she reaches across the table for the vanilla that's just out of her reach.

"Can you babysit me all the time?"

"We'll see."

"Because you're my favorite."

"You just want three scoops of ice cream."

"Please?" She looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes and, really, that's just not fair.

"Oh fine."

"Yes!" She jabs her spoon victoriously into the air.

"But," Graham begins, moving the pint of ice cream out of her reach, even though she's already managed to steal a bite of strawberry, "what are we going to do first?"

"Clean up the fort?"

"Right. And who aren't we going to tell?"

"David."

"David, that's right, darlin'."

"What aren't we telling David?" the man himself asks from the door.

"Uh oh," Emma whispers, spoon of ice cream halfway to her mouth.

"Uh oh is right," Graham replies.

"Big trouble?"

David's gaze flicks to the living room, eyeing the fort for a moment, before returning to the two guilty parties in the kitchen.

"If you didn't save any chocolate for me, then yes, big trouble."

xxxxxx

"Rory, no!"

Mary Margaret runs after the puppy, a dangerous feat under any circumstance, but especially so in the slight heels she's wearing.

"Rory!"

He stops at the corner and turns back, his pink tongue hanging out in what almost looks like a _smile, _before he takes off again down the block.

Mary Margaret groans and continues after him, thinking that investing in the dog might not have been her smartest idea. He's heading toward the water and, for a moment, she's seriously concerned about the forethought her puppy seems to lack. He'd gladly jump into the bay without considering he's never learned how to swim.

The thought makes her run harder, but as she turns the corner, she slams to a stop at the sight before her.

Emma is sitting in David's lap and now Rory is in Emma's. Both are laughing as the puppy jumps and nips, attempting to get a good lick on either of their faces, or a piece of the bread they were throwing to the ducks.

David catches her eye as he leans back, laughing heartily as the puppy climbs over Emma in an effort to reach his chin.

_Huh,_ Mary Margaret thinks, heart hammering from the run, and definitely not the look in David's eyes.

_Good dog. _

_xxxxxx_

_"No, no, no! Miss Blanchard's gonna be here any minute!" _

Those are the first words she hears when stepping through the open doorway. It's odd, since it's October and the door is certainly not propped ajar for the bitter breeze. No, if the bags dropped in the foyer are any indication, it was left open upon discovering whatever happens to be the cause of David's current distress.

"Hello?"

"Uh oh," she hears Emma say.

"Uh oh," David replies.

And when Mary Margaret enters the kitchen, she definitely knows why. There's chocolate everywhere. And she means _everywhere. _Well, everywhere Emma can reach, and the girl herself is sitting high and mighty at the kitchen table, a yellow juice box in front her along with a half-eaten Hershey bar.

"Looks like someone had some fun," she remarks, winking at Emma and giving David a sympathetic smile.

The man seems pained, embarrassed, and semi-amused all rolled up into one frazzled, incredibly good-looking package.

"Sorry - I just - we," He glances at the walls, at Emma's face, and at his own sweet-covered hands and groans.

"Go, really. You were supposed to meet Graham…" she checks her watch, "three minutes ago."

Emma's watching the proceedings with an odd look - it's devilish, yet contrite, and a little… panicked? Mary Margaret keeps one eye on her as she listens to David detail when he'll be home.

" - shouldn't be too late. I'm so sorry, I truly don't know what got into her."

"I can handle it. At least it's chocolate," she offers, trying to get him to see the bright side.

"True. Still." He stops his rushing and stands silent for a moment in the foyer, studying her. "Thank you. It seems like you're always coming to my rescue."

_"You saved me." _

_"It was the honorable thing to do." _

"Be careful," she whispers, shaking off the echo of the voices in her head.

"Always," he replies, giving her another warm smile, before diverting his attention to the kitchen and the little girl sitting guiltily at the table. "We'll talk about this when I get home, squirt."

"Big trouble?" she asks.

"Big trouble."

Her face falls and something inside Mary Margaret breaks at the bow of her head and the slump of her shoulders. It seems to affect David too, because he hesitates in the doorway, watching her with that pained look again, but Mary Margaret gives him a gentle shove and he's backing out the door, eyes never leaving hers until she shuts it with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile.

With a sigh, she makes her way back to the kitchen and to the little girl who's doing a rather good impression of a baked good before it gets put into the oven.

"Am I in trouble?" she asks so quietly, and gone is the devilish grin.

"Emma, you're a bigger girl than that," Mary Margaret replies, gesturing to the mess. "You're almost six. Too old to be doing this."

And that's all is takes for the girl to burst into tears. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I thought it would work."

Mary Margaret rushes forward and brushes the girl's sticky curls out of her face. "You thought what would work, sweetheart?"

"I thought he'd stay. I didn't want him to go to work. Bad things happen at work."

_Oh. _Yes, now she sees.

Mary Margaret places a kiss on her blond head, getting a bit of chocolate on her lip and chuckling despite the circumstances.

Of course Emma would turn the kitchen into a minor disaster zone just to keep David home. Of course she would because, like David (and perhaps even herself, she's learning) Emma doesn't do things halfway.

A warm washcloth takes care of the majority of the chocolate on the table and the walls, but Emma still sniffles where she sits and Mary Margaret lifts her hand, holding it out until the child takes it.

"Bath time."

"You're not mad?"

"No, I'm not mad. I think there are better ways for you to tell David you'll miss him, but I'm not mad."

"Do you think David's mad?" Her eyes are watering and her lip is trembling and Mary Margaret can't even muster a 'maybe.' Not with that pout staring back at her.

"No, sweetheart, I don't think he's mad. He'll still talk to you about it later, but he's not mad." She turns the water on and let's the bath fill.

Emma is trusting of her now, and takes off her chocolate covered clothes without Mary Margaret having to ask. And she's _so relieved _to find the bruises fading. To see her skin turning back to the pale white it should be.

Emma steps into the tub and tilts her head back, allowing Mary Margaret to run her fingers through her hair, washing the brown from the blond.

"So what on earth made you think that _chocolate _was a good idea?"

She shrugs yet Mary Margaret reads the 'It was all I could think of' in the gesture. For five, she's remarkably perceptive.

"Is hanging out with me so bad that you tried to get David to stay home?" she teases, tugging gently on a lock of hair.

"No, I was hoping I'd get both of you," she whispers and Mary Margaret pauses.

That's all she wants. She wants a mother and a father and, right now, Mary Margaret and David fit those bills. Her chest aches and she has to clear her throat before asking Emma to tilt her head back so she can wash the shampoo out.

"You have both of us, sweetheart," she finally says when she trusts her voice once more. "You have us."

Emma looks up with eyes so like David's.

"Really?"

"Really," Mary Margaret responds, wiping a chocolate smudge from a chin that looks oddly familiar.

Hm.

She wonders where she got it from.


	15. Roots

**I'm sorry for the wait, lovelies! Real life got in the way. Weak sauce. **

_Roots_

"Forever" is a simple word. Three syllables. Basic pronunciation. Straightforward meaning. For-ever. Not complicated.

Yet Emma feels as though her life just hopped the barrier into the fast lane of "complicated."

The sink is dripping, but she can't be bothered to lift her hand and turn it off. Not when someone just offered her a home on a silver platter, and continues to look at her as if he'd give her anything she asked for.

"People will talk," is what finally comes out of her mouth, and she's not sure why _that _of all things is what she fixates on. She's never been particularly concerned for her reputation before. But maybe that's just it: it's not just _her _reputation at stake.

David shrugs from his spot on the floor against the bathtub. "They already talk."

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"It does! If I'm… making your life difficult, then I shouldn't be here." She doesn't want that. She _never _wanted that.

He gets up from the floor so quickly, her still-nauseated stomach lurches a bit.

"Emma – "

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Move." She reaches out for his shoulders just for something to hold onto. "I still have the spins."

"Sorry," he mutters, allowing her to use him as steadying post. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

He grins as he rubs his hands up and down her arms. "I'm oblivious to many things, but unfortunately for you, not that. How's your head?"

"Foggy."

He chuckles and wets the washcloth again, before placing it on the back of her neck. She lets her head fall forward, resting her nose against his t-shirt.

"I'm not used to this."

"This generosity?" he supplies.

"How'd you know?" She feels him shrug.

"Lucky guess."

It's a big deal. Bigger than she's able to handle on a Wednesday morning with Tuesday night's dinner just flushed down the toilet. It's putting down roots, and she's never been anywhere long enough to even attempt one root, let alone enough to actually hold her.

But here's this man, who seems to blow all of her preconceived notions about men and their behavior out of the water. He's… kind. Noble, even. Yes, that's the best way to describe him: noble. The kind of man to take in an 18-year-old pregnant kid, no questions asked beyond her favorite cereal, and give her not just a bed but a _home._ Give her a place to return to in the evening, and a person to think about when she's gone.

People will talk, certainly. They'll think the baby is his; that she's nothing but a tramp. But she finds her desire to stay vastly outweighs the whisperings of others.

"Terms," she finally says, drawing back and looking him in the face.

He raises his eyebrows, but remains silent.

"I pay rent. Ah – " she holds up a hand, easily silencing his forming protest. "I pay rent. I split the cost of groceries and the cooking and cleaning."

He doesn't look happy about it, but still he says not a word.

"And when the baby comes, I find another place."

"No." It's so swift and sharp that she actually jumps a bit. Gone is his easy, exasperated smile, and in its place is a fierce look of stubbornness. One she's seen in her own mirror more often than not. "Absolutely not."

"No?"

"Emma, you don't have to leave. I'm trying to make your life easier here!"

"I didn't ask you to!" She has no idea why she's yelling, and at him of all people. "David, there will be a baby here. Do you know what that means?"

"In fact, I do."

"No you don't! I doubt _What To Expect When You're Expecting _gives you all the gory details!"

His jaw drops and he looks hilariously embarrassed. "How did you know about that?!"

"Magic!" she yells, storming out of the bathroom and promptly having to brace herself on the wall.

"Em – " he says quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder which she leans into gratefully as her stomach lurches once more.

"I'm sorry. Damn hormones."

He chuckles and gently spins her around to face him once more. "No harm done."

And that's it, that's him. She can yell at him; throw his incredibly generous offer back in his face yet he brushes it off with a simple "No harm done." She doesn't deserve this.

"Stop looking so guilty," he lightly complains. "I want this. I'm onboard for the cravings, and the mood swings, and the diapers and the 3am feedings - "

And God, he's thought farther ahead than she has and the realization makes her laugh out a sob.

"So…" he reaches back into the bathroom and pulls a tissue out, handing it to her, "…can we renegotiate the terms in, say, five months or so?"

She sighs heavily, wiping a hand across her face, unable to bite back her smile. "Deal."

"Deal." His smile matches hers as he slings an arm around her shoulders. "Is this okay? Are you gonna puke on me?"

She snorts. "I'll think you're safe for now."

Funny. She feels rather safe now, too.'

xxxxxx

"I cannot _believe_ you put me on the early shift."

She'd stamp her foot if she weren't a) at least ten years beyond tantrums, and b) afraid she'd sprain her ankle in her four-inch heels.

"It's not my fault you stayed out all night," Granny tartly retorts. "When I put over-easy on the menu, I was talking about the eggs."

Ruby rolls her eyes and leans against the post, too cold to stay outside for much longer, but too stubborn to go in and face her grandmother.

"She's a pistol," comes a voice to her left and she turns to the find the new girl leaning against her yellow car.

"You have no idea," Ruby mutters huffing and wishing she hadn't worn these shorts today. Even the girl – Emily? – is bundling her leather jacket tighter around her body. Shorts were definitely a bad idea.

"Are you here for breakfast? As you no doubt heard, the eggs are over-easy today."

The blonde smiles. "Actually, I'm here for a job."

Ruby's eyes go wide, because why on earth would anyone with a car and some semblance of cash stick around this crappy town?"If I were you, I'd get out while I can."

The girl shrugs. "It's not so bad. I've seen worse."

And something in her eyes makes Ruby believe she has. "The morning shift's available."

"Fine with me as long as you don't mind me occasionally running off to puke over the next month or so." She unzips her jacket and shows off a tiny bump.

Huh. Okay.

"Works for me," Ruby replies after a moment, stepping back and gesturing towards the door. "But of course, Granny gets final say."

"I have a feeling she won't like me very much," the girl says, running a hand over her stomach before zipping her jacket back up.

"Oh don't worry. She'll be too busy not liking me to worry about you." Ruby turns and leads the way into the diner, welcoming the heat and cursing the bell over the door.

"Shift started three minutes ago," Granny calls from behind the register.

"I had a feeling you could handle it," she replies, nodding to Dr. Hopper, the diner's only patron. "Found some extra help."

At this, Granny looks up and appraises the girl over her glasses. "What's your name, honey?"

"Uh, Emma. Emma Swan."

Emma. Right. Not Emily.

"You ever worked in a restaurant before?"

"A couple." It's all Emma offers and Ruby finds it interesting that the girl's keeping things so vague. But apparently, that's all the interview Granny needs as she pulls Ruby's coat off and shoves a pad of paper into her hand.

"Congratulations, you're hired."

"She's preggo," Ruby states, tucking a pencil behind her ear as she ties an apron around her waist.

Emma goes rigid as Granny gives her a quick onceover. "You're still hired."

Ruby smiles and raises an eyebrow at the girl who exhales deeply, having survived the brief interrogation relatively unscathed.

"Didn't mean to throw you under the bus, there."

Emma raises an eyebrow as she accepts the apron that Ruby holds out. "It's not my first interrogation."

Ruby's liking this girl more and more as she preps the coffee maker to brew a fresh pot. "You're staying with David, right?"

"Oh – yeah, but I mean it's not… it's – it's nothing... I – "

Ruby makes a vague hand gesture, waving her off. "Hell, no judgment here."

"It's purely platonic," Emma says, when she's finally found her words.

"I figured it was. David's a good guy," Ruby offers and something pangs deep in her chest, because a part of her that she'll never own up to having wants someone to swoop in and save her as well.

She wants a David Nolan.

"He is," Emma quietly agrees, tying her hair back and sliding a pencil through the messy bun.

Ruby decides in that moment to like Emma Swan. She's not sure she's really been given any other option – the chick seems cool enough. But Ruby sees something of a kindred spirit in her. A wild and stubborn streak that Storybrooke has lacked in all the time Ruby's been here. She wants to tell her to get out because despite having a David Nolan, she doesn't want the girl to go as crazy as she has. But she can't and so she doesn't.

"Love the jacket," she says instead. "Good color."

xxxxxx

Graham carries the coffee precariously as he nudges the door open with his elbow. It's nearly 5:30pm, and therefore nearly time for him to send David home. The man himself is sitting as his desk, feet propped up with an open file on his lap.

"So your ward just served me coffee and a cupcake."

"My ward?" David laughs. "What is this – an Austen novel?"

"You mocked Austen, you don't get a bite," Graham says, withdrawing the cupcake he had been about to offer.

"I take it that means she got the job," David says as he closes the file and sits up, stretching his neck.

"She has the apron and everything," Graham replies, mouth full. "Don't worry, I tipped her well."

"Yeah, yeah."

His deputy stands and begins gathering his files into something that actually resembles organization. Unlike Graham's office, which looks like a filing cabinet exploded inside. How they find anything of consequence is a minor miracle.

"I'm heading over there in a minute anyway," David says. "You want anything? Perhaps, I don't know, real food?"

"Cupcakes _are _real food!" he argues.

"You can't have cupcakes for dinner!"

"Fine, Mom!"

David's jaw drops in mock indignation. "Just because I remind you when you've worn the same shirt for three straights days does not make me your mother."

Graham laughs, but honestly, David's the only family he has and at some point over their relationship, he's fulfilled the duties of mother, father, and brother.

"Are you seeing Madame Mayor tonight?"

"Don't say it with such disdain," he grumbles, dropping into David's vacant seat and stuffing the rest of the cupcake in his mouth.

"Sorry. Reflex," David replies, quickly dodging the pair of handcuffs Graham throws his way.

"Get out of here before I lock you up for loitering."

"It's not loitering if I work here!"

"Then I'll fire you! Go!"

David laughs as he slides his arms into his jacket and tosses the keys to the cruiser at Graham, which he tries to catch but fails miserably and nearly topples out of the chair at the effort.

"Tomorrow's spaghetti night, if you want to come."

"You're just worried I'm not eating."

"It's not my fault you only know how to microwave."

"That's it. You're fired."

"So you've said many times," David calls over his shoulder as he saunters out of the station.

Graham watches him go with a thoughtful look on his chocolate-smeared face. He's known David for… well, as long as he can remember. But something has always seemed to be missing in his life, as if David was only half-present. Half-whole. Graham always assumed it was a girl, but maybe it wasn't the right kind of girl.

David's always been good at protecting people. That's just how he is. He's spent years taking care of both the town and its sheriff. And Graham teases because he's honestly not sure if he'll ever be able to repay the debt. The meals and the beers and the countless hours of conversation. The good advice and the bad advice. The games they were too old to play and the fears they were too young to be afraid of.

But then this girl game into his life – both of their lives – and though Graham had nothing to do with her arrival, he's sure as hell going to help ensure her stay.

xxxxxx

"Was that for here or to go?"

Her hair is falling in her face and her feet are killing her, but she's got a pocketful of tips and it's more money she's seen in months.

"To go, sweetheart. Thanks."

"Doctor," Granny intones with a threatening undercurrent and the doctor – _Whale, _Emma recalls – flinches under her stony gaze.

"Uh – just to go," he tries again and the 'sweetheart' is noticeably absent.

Emma grins as Granny winks at her.

The diner's been pretty great, as jobs go. Ruby's sweet if a little colorful, but her arguments with Granny are quite the entertainment. She's slowly getting to know the regulars, who seem utterly perplexed by her arrival. Perhaps David was right – Storybrooke really doesn't get many visitors.

She rubs her lower back as she slides the cup of coffee to the doctor, thanking him as he drops more than enough money on the counter and walks out.

"Careful. He's got a reputation," Ruby whispers as she sidles up next to her.

"Then why are you staring at his ass," Emma wonders as Whale exits.

"It's a good ass."

Emma laughs, but before she can reply, her name is called from the kitchen and she goes to pick up the burger, before dropping it off in front of Michael Tillman. She's been put in charge of the counter, while Ruby takes the rest of the room. It's not too crowded for the dinner hour, and Emma's grateful, already feeling slightly overwhelmed at all the new information she's trying to digest.

The bell over the door rings again and out of the corner of her eye, Emma can see that the new customer is taking a seat at the end of the bar. She finishes making Ruby a root beer float, before wiping her hands on her apron and grabbing a menu.

"Just one?"

"Excuse me?" The woman asks. "Oh – yes. Of course. Just me."

"Right," Emma replies, sliding the menu in front of her. "Something to drink?"

"Hot chocolate, please."

"Coming right up."

"Oh, with cinnamon. If you wouldn't mind."

And Emma stops.

"Cinnamon?"

"I know, it's weird." The woman shakes her head, as if apologizing for her taste, but Emma takes a step towards her before she even registers the action.

"No, no, no. It's just… I like cinnamon, too. I didn't know it was a thing."

The woman cocks her head and studies her curiously. "I don't think it is."

"Well, great minds think alike then," Emma offers, smiling slightly and turning to ready the order.

"Indeed," she hears behind her and she has no idea why she wants nothing more than to pull up a stool and share a hot chocolate with this woman. This complete stranger.

"Anything to eat?" she asks as she places the mug in front of her. She has dark cropped hair and a kind face, which smiles gratefully as Emma sprinkles the cinnamon on top of the whipped cream.

"No, just the hot chocolate, thanks."

"I'm Emma, by the way," she blurts out, shocked to have willingly offered up personal information.

"That's a beautiful name. I'm Mary Margaret," the woman replies, reaching across the counter and gently shaking her hand. "I teach at the school."

"Oh. I waitress. Obviously," she responds awkwardly, glancing to see how her other two customers are doing before lingering around the young brunette.

"How far along are you?"

She must look as caught off-guard as she feels because Mary Margaret quickly follows it up with, "If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't – I don't mind, but how on earth did you know? I'm barely showing." She even glances at her reflection in the metal refrigerator, just to be sure.

Mary Margaret smiles. "Your hand keeps going to your stomach when you're not paying attention. I just assumed."

"Oh," Emma numbly replies, and sure enough, she glances down to find her palm resting on her lower abdomen.

Mary Margaret shoots her a knowing look as she takes a sip of her hot chocolate. "I don't come in here much, but I don't think I've seen you before."

"I'm new to town," Emma replies, still unaccustomed to being a novelty.

"Well… welcome to Storybrooke."

And Emma can tell the woman truly means it. She almost seems like David, in a way: unassuming, truly generous, sincere. And Emma's pretty sure she could sit and talk with this woman all night, but much too quickly, the mug is empty and the bill is paid.

"Have a good evening, Emma."

"Uh, thanks. You too."

Mary Margaret smiles as she shifts her bag over her shoulder, heading for the door. But before she reaches it, the bell rings and David strides through, bumping right into the small woman.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she immediately says, going red and staring at her shoes.

"It's… it's all right," David replies, looking slightly dumbstruck, as he steps back and allows Mary Margaret to pass.

Emma watches – utterly fascinated – as David stares at the schoolteacher even after the door has shut between them. And so immersed is he in her departure that Emma has to throw a dishtowel at him, just to get his attention.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, shaking his head from whatever the hell that was.

"Really? I said I'd stay not 24 hours ago and already with the nicknames?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer 'squirt?"

"Kiddo' it is," she sighs, resigned to her fate.

"Granny?" he calls across the counter.

"She's all yours, David," Granny replies, sending another wink her way. "Make sure she gets some rest. She worked hard today."

"Will do," he replies as Emma comes around the bar, untying her apron. He slings an arm over her shoulder and gently guides her out of the restaurant. "You smell like hamburger."

"You smell like leather polish."

He chuckles as he opens the door into the night sky. She pretends not to notice him look around for someone who's no longer there.

"Home?" he asks.

Emma nods.

"Home is good."


	16. Appointments

**Again, I'm sorry for the wait. Work has been bat-shit crazy. It's a little long, if that makes you feel better and, dude, I have plans for this like you wouldn't believe. Watch out, world. **

_Appointments_

The air is foggy and moist, and it feels as though every time he breathes he's inhaling the ocean, but that's not what concerns him right now.

No. Right now, his biggest concern is the woman whose blushing features haunt his every step. Whose light perfume still clings to his jacket and whose name he desperately and inexplicably needs to know. Not even Emma chattering away at his side can derail that. Well, until –

"Wait. Who hit on you?" he pulls up short, causing Emma to slam to a halt beside him.

"Really? That's what you're fixated on?

"Who was it?" he demands again, pulse beginning to thump in his temple. She laughs, which is most unfortunate for someone trying to be taken seriously.

"I can take of myself," she replies, placing a placating hand on his arm.

"Oh I have no doubt. But if you're gonna live with me, you might have to put up with my constant struggle not to punch any man who looks at you sideways."

She stares at him for a moment that has him holding his breath, as if she's sizing him up and expecting him to be found wanting. He starts to pull away, because he has no right to get defensive and he doesn't want to scare her by willingly admitting his protective tendencies, but then something wonderful happens. Her face softens and those walls that she's gotten so good at building fall. She sighs through a smile and hooks her arm around his.

"My gallant Prince Charming," she drawls, but suddenly he finds it incredibly hard to breathe.

"_Nah. Charming suits you." _

"Snow," he murmurs without knowing why and something sharp settles somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

"Snow? It's April."

David glances at Emma, who's staring at him as if he's grown another head.

"Sorry… " he says, as the pain fades to a distant ache. "I have no idea why I said that."

xxxxxx

There's something sticky on the counter as well as a questionable-looking piece of food under a plastic dome apparently labeled "carrot cake."

Regina pulls a napkin from the holder and wipes down the counter before sitting in her designated seat.

"Same as yesterday, Mayor?"

Regina rolls her eyes before giving Granny a tight smile. "And the day before," she mutters.

Granny scribbles "apple pancakes" on an order pad and hangs it up in the kitchen window as Ruby pours her a cup of black coffee before sashaying away. Regina's got to admit that their cursed relationship is definitely the most amusing. Almost as amusing as watching Whale trip over himself every time Ruby bends over.

She takes a sip, thoroughly enjoying this new caffeinated addition to her life. If something happens and she's ever forced to return to the Enchanted Forest, she might have to invent electricity, just to power her coffee maker.

"Ruby," Granny calls as she hangs the phone back up on the receiver, "Emma needs the afternoon off for a doctor's appointment. I need you to cover."

"No prob," the girl replies, but Regina can't even focus on the fact that the normally rebellious Ruby does so without complaint. Not when her ears are ringing like the gong at the top of her former tower.

"Emma?" She turns and her coffee mug nearly slips from her grip as a leaden weight settles in her stomach.

Her voice is not her own. It is high and reedy, belonging to someone forced to believe that what she thought to be an impossibility was merely an improbability.

"Yeah, Emma," Ruby replies, raising an eyebrow. "The girl staying with David Nolan."

The mug falls to the counter, smashing into a dozen pieces.

_No…_

xxxxxx

Emma's clammy palm lingers on the phone for a moment, before dropping down by her side. She hasn't done this yet – been to a doctor – and frankly, she's terrified. All of a sudden the child she wasn't sure she wanted to keep has become the thing she worries most about and the realization makes her grip the counter for support.

"Em?"

She glances up to find David halfway through putting his jacket on as he enters the kitchen, looking at her with concern.

"I need you to do something for me," she murmurs, nearly crying when he immediately drops the coat and takes two steps to her side.

"Anything."

"I, uh, I kind of made a doctor's appointment today."

"Oh." He shifts, clearly expecting her to have blurted out something a lot more serious. What he doesn't realize is that, in Emma's mind, this is Def-Con 1.

"I haven't…" she trails off and inhales deeply, attempting to stave off the panic attack that's just moments away from making her get up close and personal with the floor. "I haven't been yet. To the doctor's, that is."

"Oh," he replies, with a little more understanding. "You didn't go after you first found out?"

She shakes her head and moves to pick up his discarded jacket, just to give her hands something to do. "I was pretty positive by the fifth pregnancy test."

"Yeah, I guess that would do it. What time?"

She drapes his coat on the back of the chair, running her fingers over the worn leather. It feels like hers, beaten but loved, and a part of her likes that they match. Almost.

"In an hour," she replies, silently begging him to pick up on her signals.

"Do you… want me to come with you?" The question is hesitant, but she practically sags under the relief it provides.

"Please."

He smiles and chuckles a little, shooing her toward the door. "Go put something on other than pajamas. Let me call Graham."

"Thank you!" She surprises both of them when she steps forward and wraps her arms around his neck. He stiffens for a moment and the brief but sharp fear of rejection stabs through her, but then he wraps his arms around her and hugs her close.

"Go change."

"Yes, Dad," she grumbles, pulling away and noting the odd look on his face. It's far away and yet remarkably present, as if he's trying to recall two separate times but his mind won't allow him to focus on either.

She punches him gently in the shoulder, which brings him to himself and he smiles.

But as she climbs the stairs in a house that feels more like home than it should, she wonders why that three little word felt so natural coming out of her mouth as she stood before him.

xxxxxx

This is potentially the most terrifying place he's ever been in.

There's a child screaming in the corner as his mother attempts to wrestle him into submission, there are posters on the wall depicting the various stages of pregnancy and there are magazines on the table telling readers just how many ways they are failing at being parents.

David swallows hard and glances around with wide eyes. Yep, definitely the most terrifying place he's ever been in. And that includes The Rabbit Hole on 'Casino Night.'

"You're the deputy for Christ's sake. Man up," Emma mutters in his ear before going to check in. He's only slightly offended.

"Easy for you to say," he whispers when she returns with a clipboard. "I'm totally outnumbered here."

Emma glances around to see that, yes, women are the overwhelming majority. "You've got the kid," she says, gesturing to the two-year-old boy crying on the floor.

"I feel so relieved," he deadpans, before grabbing the nearest magazine and lazily flipping through. It doesn't hold his attention, though. No, he's much more interested in what Emma is rapidly scribbling down on the patient intake form.

"You're allergic to strawberries?"

"Invasion of privacy!" she gasps, clapping her hand over the sheet to block her answers.

"I'm allergic to bees, if it makes you feel any better," he shrugs.

She narrows her eyes, but she can't hide her smile for long. David counts it as a minor victory when she gives him a mock glare and returns to her form, but doesn't cover it up.

"You don't have a middle name?"

"I'm sure I did at one point," she mutters, leaving the middle initial box blank. He has enough sense not to ask her to elaborate.

He returns to his magazine, getting entirely wrapped up in _"Twenty-five Ways to Baby-Proof Your House," _blowing through the article like he does the sports section of the Sunday paper.

"Okay, there's no way a baby can fit its finger in that. I mean, really. Look at it." He shoves the magazine in her face and she bats it away, returning to her form with a smile. "We need those plastic plug thingies."

It takes him a moment to realize she's stopped writing, and when he does, he wants to smack himself in the head at how careless he was. They won't be getting plastic plug thingies. Why would they if she's not keeping the baby? Why would they if she's keeping the baby, but not staying with him?

Dammit, David.

"I don't think 'plastic plug thingies' is the technical term," she replies and returns to her form, completely missing the sigh of relief David tries to keep inaudible. But then she says, "I'm sure we can grab some from the store," and proceeds to throw his world upside down.

She's planning. She wouldn't be planning if she wasn't considering. She wouldn't be considering if she wasn't… happy.

The realization makes David forget the other twenty-four ways to baby-proof a house.

"Swan?" a nurse calls and Emma grips his hand with surprising force as the clipboard tumbles from her lap to the floor.

"Oh god, don't let me go in there alone," she whispers, even as she raises her other hand to let the nurse know she's here.

"You'll be fine," he assures, but she grips his hand harder.

"David… I'm serious." She looks so frightened, even more so than when he found her sleeping in her car, and he remembers that though she's legally an adult, she's technically just a child.

"Okay," he finally murmurs. "Go get ready, and when it's time, have them call me in."

"You'll come?"

He pats her hand, finally getting her to release her death-grip on it. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

xxxxxx

The gown is scratchy and the paper on the exam table makes a ridiculous amount of noise any time she tries to move.

"All set?" the nurse asks as she peeks her head in and Emma can only manage a silent nod in reply. "The deputy's getting some practice."

"What?"

"That little boy in the waiting room is currently using him as a human jungle gym."

It's a sight Emma certainly wishes she could see, but at the moment, she's naked save for the flimsy excuse for a gown and the blanket around her waist. She just wants to get this over with so she can go back to her most comfortable state: denial.

There are more posters along the wall depicting happy families and women who most likely _planned _on getting pregnant. Who _wanted _this new person in their lives. And Emma is sitting on the table feeling the weight of their judgment as their smiling, happy faces stare down at her.

She feels as though she's on the verge of a full-blown panic attack – her heart is thumping, her breathing is uneven – but then the nurse steps back and David appears in the doorway. Thank _God_.

"You okay?" he asks when the door shuts behind him and he must notice Emma's rapid breath and pale skin, because he's at her side in a second. "Whoa, kiddo, calm down."

She nods, but her body isn't exactly listening to the instructions her mind is dolling out. She's starting to hyperventilate and her vision is going a bit spotty.

"Hey, hey." He places a hand on her forehead and she closes her eyes. "None of that. Breathe."

She takes a rickety inhale followed by a slow exhale.

"That's it," he murmurs, left hand still on her forehead as she grips his right in her palm. "In and out. It's just an exam. Completely routine. And then we're gonna go home and make meatballs because you know what tonight is."

"Spaghetti night," she whispers, breathing nearly back to normal.

"That's right, spaghetti night."

And she wonders how he learned to do that. How he learned to get his voice to sound like you imagine all bedtime stories to sound: lyrical and low, with just the right lulling quality to ease all manner of fears.

"I'll only calm down if you make garlic bread," she says, releasing her hold on his hand and giving him a wan smile.

"Deal." He shoves his hands on his pockets and awkwardly looks around, seeming just as unnerved by the posters as she is.

She watches him examine a plastic replica of a baby in utero, but just as he goes to touch it, he accidentally knocks the baby out.

"Oh, crap," he mutters, picking it up and attempting to shove it back in, but it doesn't quite want to go.

Emma's red with barely contained laughter at his struggle, but then a knock on the door sounds, her stomach plummets, and David quickly tosses the plastic baby in an open box of medical gloves.

"Come in," Emma murmurs, trying to breathe through the sudden uptick in anxiety. And, as if knows, David steps to her side as the doctor enters.

"Good afternoon," he greets. He's a kindly older gentleman, and immediately Emma is put at ease. His round wire-rimmed glasses magnify his eyes a bit like a bug and he has a gentle smile she imagines a grandfather to have. "How are you, Emma?"

"Good," she replies as the doctor turns to David.

"You're not the baby's father, correct?"

"No!" they simultaneously yell and the doctor raises his eyebrows, letting out a low chuckle.

"Duly noted. I didn't think you were, Deputy, but I thought I'd ask."

"I'm – I'm her… guardian," David finally says and Emma's eyes immediately well with tears.

She'd like to blame her hormones for the lack of composure, but she'd be lying to herself. It's what she's been searching for her entire life – a guardian – and he said it so easily, so casually, as if it was a forgone conclusion.

"I'm Dr. Walter, but you can just call me 'Doc.' Let's get started then." He gestures for her to lift her gown up a bit, which she does, and he squirts the gel on her abdomen. She jumps a bit from the cold.

"You okay?" David asks again and she nods, automatically reaching out for his hand, which he takes without question.

Doc places the sensor on her stomach and she hears her baby before she sees it; the pitter-patter of its rapid heartbeat fills the room a moment before it makes its fuzzy appearance on the sonogram screen.

"Oh my god," both she and David whisper at the same time. She can see its little nose and lips, and even some toes, as it curls into itself, almost huddling for warmth.

"Everything looks good," Doc says. "Strong heartbeat. Healthy weight, so far… Do you want to know what it is?"

It's a loaded question to say the least and she sucks in a breath as she stares at the screen. That's her baby. _Her _baby. She made that. David doesn't say a word, knowing the decision is utterly and completely hers, but his grip tightens in a silent show of support. She finds herself nodding, trying to comprehend how Doc is going to change in life in a matter of seconds.

"Congratulations, it's a boy."

She sobs and is surprised to find her cheeks already wet; she briefly wonders when she started crying.

"He's beautiful," David gruffly murmurs, squeezing her hand once more and she finally pries her eyes away from the screen to look at him. He's staring at her baby as if looking at something he doesn't know he's lost. Or is supposed to have. It's a longing and wistful look from someone who seems to understand the magic of what he's seeing.

And it absolutely levels her.

"Good job, kid," he says when he finally glances down at her, placing a kiss on her forehead.

This baby will be the first thing she does right. And for the first time in her life, Emma takes the compliment.

xxxxxx

The diner is warm compared to the bitter breeze that refuses to relinquish its hold on winter and let spring be ushered in.

Mary Margaret wonders why she thought Maine was a good idea and finds she can't seem to come up with a good excuse. Or even remember the decision at all, really.

She's not much for socializing, but there was something about the diner that stuck with her last night. A connection. Two, actually, if she's honest with herself, even though the second lasted for no longer than a moment.

Going by the badge on his belt, she assumes he's the deputy. He can't be the sheriff, because she's seen Graham around town. But so consumed was she by her odd encounter with the blond waitress that she didn't even see him until it was too late. Until her senses were overwhelmed by pine and leather and a familiarity just out of her reach.

"Hot chocolate?" a voice says and Mary Margaret jumps, coming back to herself and the waitress – Emma – standing behind the counter with an amused expression on her face.

"Oh! Right, yes. Hot chocolate would be wonderful." She knows she doesn't have to ask for cinnamon. It'll arrive perfectly prepared.

She sits at the counter, even though plenty of tables are open, and pulls out a folder of tests her students handed in today. She has high hopes for their scores and dives in with relish, though she only makes it past the first page before her eyes are wandering to the young woman behind the bar.

There's something different about her. A lightness, almost. She bounces around pouring drinks as if a great burden has been lifted and Mary Margaret finds herself propping her elbow up on the counter and studying her.

Emma adds a perfect dollop of whipped cream and sprinkles the cinnamon, before turning and halting abruptly when she realizes she's the subject of scrutiny.

"What?"

Mary Margaret shakes her head. "Nothing, you just look very happy."

"Oh." Emma shrugs and places the mug in front of her. "I… went to the doctor today."

"Oh? Everything okay?" She surprises even herself at how concerned she is.

"Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine. Great, even." Emma looks as if she's biting back some great secret and, sure enough, it comes tumbling out on a whispered breath. "It's a boy."

"Congratulations!" Mary Margaret replies, just as hushed, leaning forward.

"Yeah, we're really happy."

And the pronoun catches her off-guard. Not that she's one to assign labels, but given Emma's age, Mary Margaret assumed she was doing it alone. The confusion must show on her face, because Emma leans forward, closing the gap between them as if imparting a great secret.

"I meant 'we' as in me and David."

And immediately Mary Margaret's stomach knots.

"David Nolan. You bumped into him last night – "

_No._

"He sort of… took me in. He's been really great."

_Please no. _

"I don't – I don't know what I'd do without him."

Wait. The knot in her gut loosens, but her heart still drums an impossible rhythm against her ribcage. "He's not… the father?"

"Oh, God no." Emma straightens and shakes off the idea. "No. He's practically a… not father, he's too young. Maybe like a father/brother hybrid."

"He's not the father," she monotonously repeats, because if there's one fact Mary Margaret wants to get right, it's this one.

Emma chuckles. "No. He's not." And then she stares at her as if sussing out some great revelation, eyes narrowed and a knowing smile. But whatever conclusion she comes to, she doesn't share.

Merely raises an eyebrow and clasps her hands together on the counter.

"So, do you have dinner plans?"

xxxxxx

He's just organizing the last of his files as the door to the station bangs shut, signaling Emma's arrival.

Sure enough, the girl herself appears a moment later with a smug smile on her face and immediately his warning bells go off.

"What'd you do?"

"What?" she asks innocently and he narrows his gaze.

"You look like the cat who got the canary."

Her jaw drops in mock indignation. "I'm hardly a cat. If anything, I'm an awkward bird."

He chuckles as he grabs his keys and slings his holster over his shoulder. "How was work?"

"Good." She eyes the postings on the bulletin board and lazily swings her arms back and forth. It's as unguarded as he thinks he's ever seen her, and he can't help but stare for a second at how… _happy _she looks.

"You put it up."

"What?" he replies, blinking.

She points to the ultrasound picture on the bulletin board, before turning to him with a smile not a little bit awed.

"Oh. I was going to put it on my desk, but Graham wanted it there."

"Huh." She turns back to the picture and smiles softly. Though whether it's at the sonogram or Graham's reaction to it, he's not sure. He's not sure he wants to know, either.

He does a quick onceover of his desk, making sure he's not missing anything important but her voice startles him a second later.

"Oh, I kind of invited someone over to spaghetti night. I hope that's okay."

"Ruby? Because if so, I might need to give Graham an advanced warning. She attempts to jump him at every corner."

"Not Ruby," she coyly replies and that smile is back again.

He waits, expecting her to elaborate but she remains mum, saying only: "I have a feeling you'll be pleased with our guest."

"Cat." He points to her. "Canary." He points to himself.

She chuckles, which does nothing to ease his suspicions. "You owe me garlic bread."

"Yeah, yeah."

Why does he think this isn't going to end well?

xxxxxx

Regina watches at they stroll from the station to his truck, and follows at a distance, headlights off, as they drive home.

She should be surprised to find Graham waiting on the porch steps and greeting them enthusiastically as they pull up, bottle of wine in one hand and jar of pasta sauce in the other. She should be, but she's not.

The betrayal, however, hurts more than she thought it would.

He knew. Graham knew this girl had come into town and yet he kept it from her. It must have been deliberate. Why else would he tell her that he had to volunteer at the animal shelter tonight?

He was a pawn, nothing more. A toy, but as she learned from an early age, Regina doesn't like to share. And pawns who disobey get punished.

xxxxxx

"I come bearing gifts," he announces as David and Emma stroll up the walk.

"Jarred sauce? Seriously?" Emma glances at it with disdain. "We're making homemade stuff."

"And by 'we' she means 'me," David interjects, deftly dodging the punch Emma tries to land on his arm.

"What's this I hear about garlic bre – " but that's all he gets out as a pain like he's never felt before explodes in his chest.

"Graham!" Emma yells.

His mouth is open in a silent scream as he buckles, expecting to hit the ground, but falling into David instead.

He can't see; he can't breathe. All he knows is pain, but just as quickly as it comes, it goes, and he's left panting in the arms of his best friend.

"What the hell was that?" David asks, supporting most of Graham's weight, terror tinting every word.

Graham breathes, thanking any god listening for ushering air into his aching lungs.

"I don't – I don't know."

xxxxxx

Regina shuts the box and puts the car back into gear.

It was just a warning.

Next time, she won't be so lenient.


	17. Dinners

**This is for emmaswancharming, and by the end, she'll know why. **

_Dinners_

"David, stop looking at me like I'm about to collapse."

"Seeing as you can still barely walk on your own, I'm gonna go with 'Shut the hell up," David replies as he shifts Graham in his arms and nods for Emma to open the door.

She complies without a word, stepping through into the foyer and holding the door open so David can usher Graham through. He seems well enough – shaky, but well – panting slightly and holding his hand over his heart, as if attempting to keep it in his chest.

"We need to get you to the hospital."

"No," the sheriff firmly replies. "I'm fine. Really."

David lets go and Graham falls to the floor. "Yeah, you're fine."

Despite everything, the sheriff smiles. "Touche."

David picks him up again and starts to help him into the living room, but Graham protests.

"No, no. If I'm an invalid, I want to at least be able to shout out directions while you burn the pasta. Put me in the kitchen."

The comment finally draws a smile from Emma as David maneuvers him into a chair at the table and steps back to look at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

Graham glances up, still panting slightly and smiling wanly. "Don't look so traumatized. I'm hungry. Get crackin'."

David rolls his eyes, but knows that his gaze won't leave the sheriff for long. What happened was… not normal; to look on the verge of death one moment and be perfectly fine the next.

"Go grab a pot from the cabinet," he gently murmurs to Emma, just to give the girl something to do. Her face his pale and her eyes are wide, as she continues to stare at Graham like he might keel over at any moment.

"Darlin', I'm fine," he assures as he takes her hand and squeezes. David's heart swells at the gesture, kind of loving that Graham has so enthusiastically accepted Emma as a part of David's life.

She doesn't look entirely placated, but moves to the cabinet and pulls a pot from its depths anyway. She perks up considerably, however, when the doorbell rings and she moves quickly down the hall. If her gasp is anything to go by, it looks as though forgot about the fourth member of their dinner party. David certainly did.

"We expecting company?" Graham asks.

"Emma apparently invited a surprise guest."

The sheriff pales. "Ruby?"

"Not Ruby. I checked," David assures, but Graham still seems to be looking for the nearest exit.

"Not Ruby!" Emma calls as she moves to the door, swinging it open just as David's stomach plummets to the floor.

"Hi, I'm sorry I'm late," the woman says, holding up two bottles of wine apologetically. "I didn't know if I should go with red or white, but since it's spaghetti night, I thought red, but some people don't like red, so I brought both."

She flushes pink, Emma chuckles, and David is absolutely _done _for.

xxxxxx

"Come on in," Emma welcomes, stepping back and ushering Mary Margaret through.

The house is warm and inviting, not unlike her own, yet she can hear distant laughter in the kitchen, which her apartment has always lacked. Solitary existence is sort of like that, she supposes. The deep timbres make her heart lurch, nearly pounding out of her chest because she knows that of the two, one belongs to him. She might even be able to pick it out of a crowd, despite the fact she's heard him say all of four words:

"_It's – It's all right." _

His chest had been firm when she bumped into it and she's spent the 24 hoursthat followed trying to forget that particular fact. She takes comfort in knowing that he looked just as stunned as she felt. And so distracted is she by her mental play-by-play that it takes her a moment to realize Emma's still talking.

"… be a little late. We had an issue."

"Oh. No problem." Mary Margaret shakes her head and holds her breath as Emma turns to lead her to the kitchen, and perhaps more importantly, to him.

"Gentlemen, this is Mary Margaret Blanchard – hot chocolate connoisseur and school teacher extraordinaire."

The intro is a little intimidating but it's nothing compared to the look David gives her when she steps through the door. It's unfamiliar, and yet not – as if his gaze has rested on her a thousand times before and still found something new to wonder at.

"Hi," Graham says, standing up and offering a hand. "Graham Humbert."

"Yes, of course, sheriff," Mary Margaret replies and she should feel slightly rude that her eyes keep finding the other man in the room, but with the way he's looking at her in return, she just can't be bothered.

"I believe you two met briefly the other night," Emma begins and Mary Margaret can see the spark in her eye a mile away. The girl has something up her sleeve and it's not hard to deduce what exactly it might be.

"David," he croaks, sticking out his hand abruptly. "David Nolan."

"Mary Margaret Blanchard," she quietly replies, taking it. And the moment their palms touch, something unlike anything she's ever experienced happens. She's supposed to be here, right now in this kitchen. She knows this. She's supposed to be holding this man's hand and attempting to avoid his piercing gaze.

Her life has always been structured and organized, but now, for the first time, it finally feels _right_.

Emma clears her throat and Mary Margaret jumps slightly, dropping David's hand. Graham's glancing between them like it's Christmas come early and to be perfectly honest, she's kind of dreading the mischievous gleam that's sparked in his eye.

"Right, well, I believe I have garlic bread to make," David says, to which Emma promptly replies, "Damn right you do."

Mary Margaret barely knows Emma and she doesn't know David and Graham at all, yet she feels as though she's stood in this kitchen a million times before. Perhaps not in this kitchen, but at least with these people. It's an unnerving feeling.

"What can I do? Put me to work," she announces and David holds up a tomato.

"How are you at salads?"

"I've chopped a fair few in my day," she replies, wondering when exactly she picked up the ability to banter.

"Then salads it is," he says as he tosses the tomato – and banter she might have picked up on, but catching she certainly hadn't – and her desperate attempt to reach for the fruit knocks a jar of pasta sauce off the edge of the table. It shatters on the floor, turning the linoleum into what looks to be the site of a sauce-filled water balloon fight.

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaims, utterly mortified, as Graham reaches to grab a roll of paper towels.

"Why are _you _sorry?" Emma snorts, gesturing to the sheriff. "He's the one who brought the jar of third rate sauce to begin with. Really, it's all his fault."

"Oi! He threw the tomato!" Graham defends, but Emma merely shrugs.

"Details." She moves to kneel down but David places a protective hand on her arm.

"I've got it," he murmurs, and only then does Mary Margaret see the red stain on the side of his shirt. It's just tomato sauce – she _knows _that – and yet she can't stop staring. She's been here before. She's seen this before. Red overlaid on white. 

"_Please. Please come back to me." _

She's felt the weight of him on her lap, held his head in the crook of her elbow. Begged him to open his eyes, pleaded with him not to leave her alone. Traced his jaw with the pads of her fingertips, recalled his features she found in their daughter's face.

"Mary Margaret?"

She jumps at the touch on her elbow and glances up to find David looking at her with concern. _David. _

"_I have a name, you know." _

"Sorry." She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry," she repeats as she comes back to herself and the mess she's created. "You can add 'professional klutz' to my list of accomplishments."

"Nah," David says as he winks and her knees go weak. "Maybe 'athletically challenged' but definitely not 'professional klutz."

She snorts as the red is wiped clean from the white. "You should see me run."

She's good at making jokes at her own expense, but it's a diversion to keep them from seeing just how shaken she is.

"_Please come back to me." _A whisper in her own voice, yet she cannot define time or place.

The plea continues to haunt her through dinner, dessert and goodbye, because Mary Margaret knows, deep down in the very marrow of her bones, that a life without him in it is no longer an option.

xxxxxx

Emma blinks her eyes open and stretches like a cat, the tips of her fingers brushing the headboard of her little blue bed.

It's Friday, and on Fridays, Ruby takes the morning shift so she can spend Saturday morning recovering from Friday night. Emma was happy to make the trade, having no social life to speak of, save for perhaps spaghetti night, which in itself is a little pathetic. And yet last night was the most fun Emma's had in an incredibly long time – barring Graham's inexplicable collapse, which still makes her ill every time she plays it back in her mind.

But the good certainly outweighed the bad: David and Mary Margaret flirted over sliced tomatoes (and squashed ones), Graham shouted out cooking tips from his assigned seat, David made his famous garlic bread, and Emma – well – Emma got to sit back and watch it all.

And she got to wake the next morning without rushing to the bathroom to throw it all back up again. So far, Friday is looking up.

She throws the covers back and lets her toes sink into the carpet as she stretches her neck. The collar of her cotton t-shirt is frayed, yet she still continues to wear it, despite the fact that most others would have tossed it by now. By Emma's standards, it's in perfect condition: the cotton is soft and the letters are faded and its scent is distinctly hers.

She absentmindedly runs her hand across her abdomen and promptly freezes, glancing down.

"Oh my god!"

She hears a thud, a bang, and then David is charging into her room with a baseball bat held high above his head.

"What are you doing?"

"What am I _doing_?" he pants, slowly lowering the bat. "You screamed. I came running." As if that's all the explanation he needs. Perhaps it is.

"Look!" She takes his hand and tugs him over to the mirror, turning sideways. "I completely popped overnight. One minute I was still relatively small and the next, I've got a basketball in my gut."

"That's a little dramatic."

"Are you not seeing what I'm seeing?!" She takes his chin and points it back to the mirror. "I'm _huge_!"

"You're delusional."

"David!"

"What?" he laughs as he dodges a swipe from her. "Hey, where'd you get that?"

"Get what?" She's still bristling at his complete disregard for how urgent this situation is, so if she's a bit curt, then so what.

"That shirt."

"This?" She pulls the hem away to inspect it upside down. "I don't know. I've always had it."

"Huh." His brow creases at he looks at her thoughtfully. "I went to college there."

"You did?" And she completely forgets that she's supposed to be a little mad at him. "What a coincidence."

"Yeah," he says in a way that indicates he's not entirely sure it is. But that would just be ridiculous.

"Stop getting off topic."

"I didn't realize we were supposed to still be on it," he mutters, dropping the bat and rubbing his eyes. "I'm going back to bed."

"David," she pleads and he freezes at the tone. She's scared. Her growing bump is just further evidence that there is a _person _inside of her – a person who will depend on her for food, clothing, advice, _life_ – and she can barely depend on herself. "I'm not entirely sure I can do this."

He immediately turns and places his hands on her shoulders, all traces of humor gone. "Yes you can."

"It's too real!"

"The sonogram wasn't real enough?"

Point.

She's beginning to panic and he knows it, yet he continues to stare at her with that blind faith. It's annoyingly endearing.

"Come with me," he murmurs as he releases her shoulders and grabs a pair of her jeans from the foot of the bed.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," he replies and she groans.

Wonderful.

xxxxxx

The jeans David tossed at her that fit just yesterday are no longer an option – and won't be for another five months. Opting for a pair of stretchy workout pants, yet leaving the t-shirt, she grudgingly follows David down the stairs and out the door into the cool morning breeze.

He remains silent the whole way, pausing only for a moment to wave hello to Leroy. Emma keeps glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as he leads her down the streets, towards the marina. His jaw is set, but his eyes are soft and she knows that whatever he's brought her out here to do, it's for her own good.

It's nice to have someone like that.

"Here," he says after a moment and she sucks in a breath as their destination becomes clear.

He's brought her to the ducks.

And suddenly she can't breathe.

"I come here sometimes. It helps clear my head. Not sure why…" he trails off and sits on the wooden bulkhead, patting the seat beside him.

She wordlessly joins him, letting her feet hang over the edge, near some adventurous ducklings who've come to check out her sneakers. And David surprises her yet again when he pulls two pieces of bread out of his pocket and hands one to her.

"I know you want this baby," he says after a moment. "Anyone in that exam room yesterday knows you want this baby. But it's scary, I get that. The question is: _what _are you afraid of?"

She scoffs, but doesn't trust her voice beyond that. 'Everything,' she wants to answer.

"I know you, Emma. You face everything head on. Why should this be any different?"

'Because it is,' is the reply that gets stuck in her throat, but David doesn't seem to need her response. And for that, she's grateful.

"Are you scared you're gonna screw him up?" he tosses a piece of bread and she watches as the tiniest duck takes it. "Emma, everyone is. You're an adult. I mean – you don't need me… " He exhales sharply as if his words aren't cooperating with him. "You're not even mine and I'm terrified of messing you up."

And of all the things she had expected him to say, that was nowhere near the top ten. And that's it, that when it hits her: she can't lose her family and David is her family. This baby is her family. The pang in her chest is so sharp and so all consuming that she has to swallow hard just to stifle the sob in her throat.

"I need you," she eventually replies, so low and so broken that she's afraid he might not have heard her.

"And you have me. You're not alone." And finally he turns to face her, dropping the rest of his bread in the water, before placing his hands on her hers. "Don't ever, for one second, think you are alone in this. I'm here. Graham is here. Mary Margaret, Granny, Red. Hell, even the ducks are here for you," he chuckles and she glances down to find that, indeed, the little furry things seem to find her dangling shoelaces fascinating. "You are not alone, Emma," he finishes, squeezing her hands and leaning forward to place a kiss on her temple.

But suddenly something inside of her _moves _and she gasps because _whoa_. David pulls away, eyes wide and searching, as if looking for his baseball bat to hit whatever caused her pain.

"What? What's wrong?"

She laughs through her tears and she can't even be bothered to wipe them away as she wordlessly takes his hand and places it on her stomach.

"Em – "

"Wait," she interrupts. "Just wait for it."

He does, eyebrow arched skeptically, but then it happens again and he jumps beside her. "Oh my god! Was that him?"

"Uh huh," she nods, more tears streaming down her face. "That was him."

David laughs and she stares at him through watery eyes to find him in much the same condition. What a pair they make.

Her hand is cold, but she doesn't dare move it from atop his, resting against the worn cotton of an old college t-shirt. Her leather jacket doesn't zip up around her belly anymore, but she finds she's okay with that, as long as it gives her easy access to this. This miracle inside of her.

"Do you really want to give that up?" he finally asks. She shakes her head and a tear splashes on her cheek.

"If I do this, you're stuck with me."

"I'm more than okay with that," he replies, leaving his hand on her stomach but gazing at the ducks. "So… we're keeping him?"

"We're keeping him."

A grin splits his face and she can't stand up against its infectiousness. "I guess we actually _are _gonna have to get some of those plastic plug thingies."

"I guess so." And cribs and diapers and formula and clothes and college tuition and…

She immediately halts that line of thinking before she crushes the rest of the bread in her hand and instead, focuses on this moment –

Sitting by the ducks with her baby beneath her palms and her rock by her side.

xxxxxx

Two weeks pass.

Mary Margaret becomes a permanent fixture at spaghetti night, as well as the newly established game night, even though Graham refuses to play Monopoly if Emma's around the board.

Graham doesn't have another episode, but Emma can still see David (when he thinks no one's looking) watching the sheriff as if he'll disappear at any moment.

As for David and Mary Margaret, they dance around each other in a carefully choreographed piece, but neither knows how to lead. Their interactions consist of silent mutual attraction and not much else, like some invisible barrier is set between them.

In her 21st week, Emma and Graham form Operation: Dovetail to remedy that situation. They have walkie-talkies but are still working out codenames. Graham wanted "Renegade." Emma vetoed that immediately.

In her 23rd week, David comes home with more plastic plug thingies than they have outlets. And he definitely electrocutes himself while testing them out, despite what he says to the contrary.

In her 26th week, a box ends up on their doorstep with a note in Mary Margaret's perfect handwriting:

_Found on shelf. First gift for baby. ~MM_

Emma opens it up to find the most beautiful leather bound book she's ever seen with _Once Upon a Time _embossed on the cover. She gives it a cursory glance and finds it amusing that David looks so much like the guy on the fifth page.

In her 27th week, the bell rings over the door in Granny's and a man she's never seen before sits down at the counter. Even Emma has now grown wary of strangers despite the fact that she herself was one not all that long ago.

"Can I help you?"

"Black coffee, please. And a slice of that pie, if you wouldn't mind."

He doesn't look all that much older than she is… Still. David and Graham will want to know if there's someone new in town.

"I don't think I've seen you before." She's fishing and she has a feeling he knows it.

"Probably because I've never been here before," he replies and, yep, she's definitely busted.

"In that case, I'm Emma," she recovers, sticking out her hand and watching as he places his motorcycle helmet on the seat beside him to grasp it.

"Pleased to meet you, Emma," the stranger says with a smile. "I'm August. August W. Booth."


	18. Strangers

**For jesscharmings, who had a headache and wanted to sleep, but stayed up waiting for this update. Apologies for the lack of Graham and MM in this one. Trust me, I'll make up for it next chapter. **

_Strangers_

"Really? W?"

"'Fraid so."

He expects the sass but not the prominent baby bump that prevents her from pushing his coffee too far across the counter. He hasn't seen her in nearly seven months, but he'd kept tabs on her. Gotten word from here and there. He knew she was pregnant, but perhaps the idea didn't really hit home until he walked through that door.

He gets a pang somewhere deep inside his chest – in a place he had thought stopped feeling long ago. He was supposed to protect her. To watch out for her. And now she has a record and a baby on the way.

"_Think of me as Emma's guardian angel." _

"_Guardian angel? I'd say you've been doing a pretty crap job." _

"When did you get in?" she asks and he takes a moment to study her features. She still has the same nose, eyes, and chin he remembers from so long ago, staring up at him from a nest of white wool. He sees her like that in his haunted memories and bad dreams, wondering what she did to make him abandon her.

"Just this morning," he answers, careful not to hold her gaze for too long.

"_I've been looking for her for the past two years." _

He thinks she's warming to him, because she asks him if he has a place to say and he knows she's not doing it just to be polite.

"Well, first on the list was pie and second was lodging. I've got the pie," he gestures to the oozing cherry goodness in front of him with his fork, "and I'm pretty sure I know where to find a bed."

And before he can even finish the sentence, an older woman is at his side, guest book in hand.

"Square view or forest view?"

August smiles and scoops a bite into his mouth. "Surprise me."

The older woman narrows her eyes, before blushing and scribbling something on the paper. "Come see me when you're done."

"Yes, ma'am."

Emma arches an eyebrow and refills his coffee cup without him having to ask. "Stop flirting with Granny. You'll give her ideas."

He barks out a laugh. "Trust me, I think those ideas were already in her head."

Emma scrunches her nose, as if she'd never considered that possibility and leans her elbows on the counter with not a little difficulty. If his math is right, she's gotta be nearly eight months pregnant. He allows himself a flicker of a smile as he wonders if it's a boy or girl.

"So where are you from?" she asks, breaking his train of thought.

"Uh – all over really," is his reply. He knows she's trying to figure him out, but she won't have much luck.

Until she realizes that the man she's placed her trust in is actually her father, there's no way on this earth or any other that the concept of Pinocchio will be anything more than a bedtime story.

xxxxxx

David sighs as he tries to find a file Graham _swears_ he left on his desk, but the clutter seems to cover every available space, leaving the chances of finding anything of consequence slim to none.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, wanting nothing more than to wrap this up and go home. He hasn't been sleeping because every time he gets close to unconsciousness, his brain remembers one more thing they've yet to get for the baby. Two nights ago, it was pacifiers. Last night, it was diaper cream.

And don't even get him started on the crib.

He thought they had everything picked out, but then Emma went into nesting mode and no crib was the right crib. So now they're mere weeks away from her due date, with no place to put the baby if he comes early. And he _still _can't find the damn file on Graham's desk!

"David?"

"In here," he calls distractedly, lifting up papers and books he knows the sheriff never reads.

"What are you doing?"

"Supposedly my job."

"Cleaning up after Graham?" she asks with a smile.

"That too," he chuckles. Giving up on the file, he sighs and finally glances up at her. She looks tired. And sore, if the way she's fidgeting is any indication. She's taken to wearing his leather jacket and she pulls it tight across her stomach as far as it will go. Her adored red one is hanging in the hall closet gathering dust, and David is finding that Emma has a penchant for pilfering his closet. Yesterday is was a pair of sweatpants. Today, it's the scarf currently wrapped around her neck.

She's stifling a yawn and he's about to suggest they forget the file and just go home, but the phone rings and he's really hoping it's just Graham reminding him to pick up garlic bread ingredients for tomorrow's spaghetti night.

"Sheriff Station," he answers, holding up a finger in Emma's direction to give him a minute.

"Deputy Nolan," the voice on the other end says, and David inwardly groans_. _

"What can I do for you, Mr. Gold?"

"It appears I've had a break-in."

_Damn. _"I'll be right over." He rests the phone against his forehead for a moment, before returning it to the receiver.

"Duty calls?" Emma asks, a spark lighting up her face once more and he nods.

"I'll call Mary Margaret to bring you home."

"I can drive myself," she argues.

"You can't fit behind the wheel."

"Oh low blow." She glares at him before glancing around, as if looking for the nearest item to throw in his direction. "Let me come."

"Absolutely not."

"Come _on. _You've gotta let me get my kicks in somewhere. There's only so much excitement at Granny's!"

He wants her nowhere near a crime scene and yet she's looking at him with _those _eyes, and in all the time she's been here with him, he's never been able to say 'no' when she fixes him with that look.

"Fine."

"Yes!"

"But you say nothing, you touch nothing, and you go no further than three feet away from me at all times," he instructs, already regretting his decision despite the fact that her face just lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Yes, sir," she mock salutes, looping her arm through his as he exits Graham's office, flicking off the lights. "So where to?"

"Gold's," David mutters, slipping his holster around his shoulders and holding the door open for Emma.

"Oh, P.S., there's a new guy in town," she says off-handedly and David halts, because he doesn't like the sound of that.

"A new guy?"

"Yeah, August W. Booth or something."

No, he doesn't like the sound of that at all.

xxxxxx

Emma's sticking close to David and not because Mr. Gold has been creeping her out ever since he learned her name.

"_Emma. What a lovely name." _

He's been staring at her as if waiting for something to happen. Something momentous, which leaves her with a general sense of inadequacy and disappointment when nothing out of the ordinary occurs.

She almost wishes she had taken David up on his offer to call Mary Margaret to bring her home, but they're outside the pawn shop and really, there's no turning back now.

"Stay here," he murmurs, squeezing her arm and reaching for the knob on the already opened door.

"Don't leave me," she pleads rather uncharacteristically, grabbing his wrist, because she's not sure what's beyond that door and she doesn't want him going in there alone.

"Emma – "

"Please." Her grip tightens and he gazes at her curiously for a moment, as if wondering what exactly has gotten into her, before giving a reluctant nod and taking her hand in his.

"Fine. Come on."

David pushes the door open to find Gold leaning against a glass display case with an unconscious man at his feet.

"Mr. Gold," David greets rather dryly. "I see you've handled things." He nods to the man on the floor and Gold shrugs.

"His name is Jefferson," the older man says, his gaze lingering on David and Emma's clasped hands. "He was after this…" Gold steps sideways to reveal the most beautiful glass mobile Emma's ever seen, but that's not what has her undivided attention. No, what has her attention is David's grip on her palm, which tightens dramatically at the reveal. It takes her a second to realize that Gold is watching him the same way he watches her. As if waiting for something to happen.

"Where did you get that?" David asks which, given the circumstances, Emma finds an odd choice for a first question.

"Oh I've had it for eighteen years or so. It's on loan," Gold says with a smile, his eyes finding hers and holding her under the weight of his gaze.

David starts to leave her side and move towards it, but she sticks to his hip, moving with him like a magnet. He pushes a glass unicorn with the tip of his finger and sends fragmented light dancing across the walls.

"Why did he want it?" David's voice sounds years away, and Emma's starting to grow concerned. She's seen him on duty before – he goes straight for the perpetrator and begins nailing out the details. He doesn't let evidence distract him like this. _Haunt _him like this.

"Oh who knows, really," Gold replies in a tone that suggests he knows exactly why.

Emma leaves David staring at the mobile to glance at the man on the ground. He's bleeding from a wound on his temple, but otherwise, seems none the worse for wear.

"David?"

"Hm?" It takes him a moment longer to pry his eyes away from the mobile, and when he does, Emma nods towards the man on the ground.

"Handcuffs?"

"Oh, right." He steps forward and binds the man's hands behind his back, shaking him slightly and receiving a grunt in response.

Gold is still watching them carefully and Emma moves towards David, pressing herself into his side. She loves that he knows her silences well enough by now to know that she's uneasy, and he places a hand on her lower back and rubs small circles as the man before them slowly reaches consciousness.

"Jesus, Gold," he groans. "You didn't have to use the cane."

"Be good," the broker replies. "We have company."

The man – Jefferson – squints one eye open and first spies David's boot, following his leg up until his eyes land on his face.

"Deputy," he begins. "Charmed, I'm sure."

David rolls his eyes and steps away from Emma to haul the man to his feet.

"Ah, Emma…" his voice is soft, but his tone is a little bit… off.

"Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you – "

"Don't talk to her," David snaps, shaking Jefferson hard and causing the man to erupt into laughter.

"Oh, if you only knew…" he shakes his head sadly, glancing forlornly at the mobile in Gold's hand. "That's attempt number two failed. As they say, third time's the charm."

David raises an eyebrow and glances at Gold. "Do you know what he's talking about?"

Gold shrugs. "Haven't the faintest."

He's lying, but Emma would prefer to make her assumptions known in the privacy of the sheriff's office. David manhandles Jefferson into a chair and gently leads Emma away from him.

"Mr. Gold, if you'll just fill out this incident report, I'll take him down to the station for questioning."

"Of course, deputy. Anything I can do to _speed_ the process along." It isn't _what _he says, but rather whom he says it to that has the hairs on the back of Emma's neck standing on end. Gold's smiling an impish grin in her direction and it's only because David is filling out his portion of the report and therefore not seeing the look, that Gold remains without bodily harm.

"You've been here before," Jefferson says behind her, and she turns to find him eyeing her curiously. "Remember?"

"What are you talking about?" she keeps her voice low, because despite what David says – and despite the fact that she knows he has her best interests at heart – she has a feeling that she _needs _to hear what this man has to say.

"You've been here before."

"Of course I've been to Gold's shop before."

"Not the shop, the town. You've been to Storybrooke before." He says it so simply and yet the words knock her silent, because he's touched on something she's been denying since the moment she first arrived.

She's been here before. There's no way someone can have such a strong sense of déjà vu with every new person and building they come across and not have encountered them at least one other time in their lives.

"Yes," he whispers. "You remember."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She'd be so much more convincing if her voice didn't shake. Her ears roar with every pulse of her beating heart and yet she can't look away from the restrained man with the slightly mad smile, sitting calmly in front of her. His calmness is only a front though, and she can practically taste the desperation marking his every look.

"Remember the ducks."

"_I can't remember. He took me to the ducks." _

"Em? You ready?" David's voice breaks through the fog in her mind and she finds herself nodding absentmindedly and moving toward him without really registering the action. By the time she finally looks up, she's nearly face to face with Gold, who's holding out the mobile.

"A gift," he says. "For your pains."

Though it's one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen, Emma isn't entirely sure she wants something Mr. Gold is handing out. But she waits to take her cue from David and when he gives her a slight nod, his gaze never straying far from the mobile, she takes the proffered object from Gold's hand.

"Thank you."

"Your boy will like that."

She frowns. "How'd you know it was a boy?"

Gold shrugs but his eyes dance. "Lucky guess."

xxxxxx

Despite the summer month, the night air is cool and Mary Margaret wraps the jacket around her tighter as she leans against the side of David's truck. She had been on her way home from Granny's, hoping to catch a glimpse of Emma, but was informed by Ruby that the blonde had worked the early shift. Despite that initial disappointment, she still won't admit to nearly gasping when she saw David's truck parked outside of the pawnshop.

Nope, she definitely did not do that.

And so she waits patiently, figuring he's here on business, because it's not everyday David finds himself at the pawnshop and certainly not at 9:30 on a Wednesday night.

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens and Mary Margaret is rewarded not only with David, but also with Emma as the two come striding down the sidewalk.

"We could hang it over the crib," she hears Emma suggest as they walk towards the car. What catches her eye, though, is the way David forces a smile in return and she wonders briefly when she started to be able to tell the difference.

"You mean the non-existent crib?" he replies, causing Emma to chuckle, and only then does Mary Margaret notice the object in the girl's hands. A beautiful glass baby mobile and the sight of it causes her breath to catch in her throat.

She's seen that before.

"Oh just the person I wanted to bump into," David breathes, hurrying towards her. Normally, a declaration like that would have her knees buckling, but she can't seem to tear her gaze away from the fragile creation catching the moonlight. "I have to take someone down to the station," he says, gesturing back towards the pawnshop. "Would you mind taking Emma home?"

"Love to," she whispers, trying so hard to look away from the blue figurines. Only when David's fingers gently brush her wrist does she look into his eyes. Blue orbs that seem to hold the weight of a very befuddled world. He watches her watch the mobile and a silent sense of understanding seems to pass between them. She's not sure what it is, but it's something.

And where David Nolan is concerned, she'll take whatever she can get.

xxxxxx

Regina watches as Emma gets into the car with Snow and Charming turns back to the pawnshop.

Jefferson is proving far more troublesome than his damnation is really worth and she's debating on whether she wants to run the risk of someone actually believing his mad ravings or whether she should just snuff out the problem now. It wouldn't take much, after all.

The taillights of Charming's truck disappear around the corner and Regina sighs, stepping a well-heeled foot out of her car and slamming the door shut. She doesn't have the patience for this.

The shop is musty but she can still make out the would-be thief slumped on a chair and the owner leaning gaily against a display case.

"Mr. Gold, I trust everything is in order?" She arches an eyebrow, sparing a disdainful glance for Jefferson and the man hauling him to his feet.

"It is now, Madam Mayor. Thanks to our deputy here."

She stifles the urge to roll her eyes and instead offers an, "Excellent."

Her gaze lingers on Gold a little longer than necessary. The moment Emma's name was uttered in the diner, Regina knew exactly who she was. The question is whether or not Gold's caught on too. She's not sure what triggered his memory last time. A failsafe the son of a bitch built into the curse, no doubt. But if he knows now, he's playing it safe.

Or merely biding his time.

"So kind of you to drop in," he says, limping back and allowing Charming to pass by with Jefferson, the latter of whom offers her a wild-eyed grin.

"Worried, Regina?" he asks and Charming elbows him.

"Hardly," she drawls, but despite her bravado, she can't help the way her stomach knots every time she sees them together. The family that's become her own personal hell.

"You should be," Jefferson spits out and, for once, Regina is actually grateful to Charming for giving him a firm shove and gruff, "Shut up."

"Just doing my civic duty," she replies, winking. "Give Grace my love."

And that's what does it. Jefferson lunges at her and it's only Charming's firm grip on his torso that keeps the man from tackling her to the ground, despite the handcuffs on his wrists.

The door swings shut behind them, muffling Jefferson's shouts, and Regina runs her fingers through her hair as if putting everything back in its place.

"Well, I'm glad that nasty business is behind us," Gold says as he tips his cane, and it's all Regina can do not to snort. If only.

The imp turns back to his counter, straightening some knick-knacks that had been knocked over during the scuffle and Regina watches his back for a moment, wondering for the first time if the man really does not know.

She'd like to think she's been getting good at looking out for the signs; she's been watching Charming and Emma long enough to become an expert, but the little family fate keeps throwing together doesn't seem to be making any progress, so she's leaving them alone. For now.

Like Gold, she can bide her time. After all, time is all she has.

xxxxxx

August's knee is bouncing up and down as he stares around the empty sheriff's station. It's not his first time in this sort of setting unfortunately, but for once he's here for relatively benign reasons. Still. He's never been the _only _one in a sheriff's station and so he decides to take advantage of the situation and have a look around.

There's a sonogram picture on the bulletin board – Emma's, no doubt – as well as some take-out cartons in the trashcan. Files upon files are stacked on the desks in relatively organized towers, but it's the picture in the corner that catches his eye.

Emma and David are sitting by the water, heads thrown back in near-identical laughter and for a moment, August's breath catches in his throat, because _how _can anyone take a look at this picture and not realize they are staring at father and daughter?

Knowing that Emma is thisclose to finding that which she's searched for all her life physically pains him, and he has to sit down once more under the enormity of the task before him. He doesn't get long to brood, though, as headlights flash through the window and car doors slam a moment later.

"I leave you alone for _five minutes_," a voice says in the lobby, followed by a thud, a grunt, and some more shuffling, before the doors to the bullpen bang open and three men come tumbling through.

"I said I could handle it," the other voice says and August immediately straightens, because he'd know that voice anywhere.

Prince James.

"If you'd just remember, this would be so much easier!" the third says and the sheriff claps his hand over his mouth while the Prince goes to get the keys to the cell.

Somewhere under the deafening beat of his thumping heart, he registers amusement at the fact that no one's noticed him yet, but then the crazy guy with his hands cuffed behind his back wrestles free of the sheriff's grip and locks eyes on him.

"Who the hell are you?" he asks and everyone stops.

August wants to disappear into the wall, but unfortunately walls like that don't exist in this world.

"Uh…" he stands, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and taking a step toward the only man, other than his father, that he wanted to be like. "I'm August W. Booth. I'm new to town and I heard you're not too fond of strangers, so I thought I'd introduce myself."

He receives three bewildered stares in return, before the prince seems to come to his senses and take a step forward. "I heard about you. You met Emma."

"Yeah," August replies, breathing out a sigh of relief. "I met Emma."

The Prince – David – is staring at him appraisingly and August audibly gulps. This is the man who defended a kingdom, taught him how to use a sword, and still has no idea that the boy standing before him took his wife's place in a magical wardrobe with a promise to protect his only daughter.

David holds his hand out and, after a moment, August takes it. The Prince's gaze is fierce, but it's the man in the handcuffs that has him truly unsettled. He's staring at him as if he sees straight through him. Straight through the leather jacket and the jeans to the wooden boy beneath.

"What brings you to Storybrooke?" the Prince asks, and August swallows hard just to keep the truth from spilling from his lips.

"I broke a promise," he opts for instead and he's not sure if it's the look of remorse on his face or the shake in his voice, but the man to whom he owes his life doesn't ask for details.

And for that, August is eternally grateful.

xxxxxx

It takes two weeks for Jefferson to be moved to the psych ward and during those fourteen days, Emma stays away from the sheriff station.

xxxxxx

David hangs the mobile from the ceiling on a Friday and on the following Wednesday, he comes home to find a disassembled crib in the middle of the room with a note written in Mary Margaret's familiar scrawl:

_We picked this out today. She didn't want anyone to build it but you._

It takes him six days to follow all of the instructions, check and re-check every bolt and screw. Emma teases him, saying it's worse than the incident with the plastic plug thingies, but he catches her looking at him softly when she thinks he isn't paying attention.

xxxxxx

On a Friday, a few weeks later, Emma has grown strangely quiet as she stretches out on the couch, her feet in David's lap. Normally, she has a running commentary going for this particular TV show, but she hasn't made a single snarky comment and David finds he misses it.

"Do we have any ice cream?"

"In the freezer," he replies.

"No I ate that." She rubs her hand across her stomach and David watches her guardedly out of the corner of his eye.

"I can go get you some."

She sighs and eyes the height from the couch to the floor, perhaps wondering if the struggle to stand is worth the effort. David chuckles and squeezes her ankle, gently lifting her feet off his lap.

"All right, I'll get my coat," she mutters as she allows him to help her to her feet. They're supposed to walk. The doctor said moving might help the baby along, and she's long since stopped declaring that she doesn't need any help, for which David is grateful. Stubborn Emma is enough to deal with. Stubborn and hormonal Emma is a whole new can of worms.

He stands by as she searches the closet for a jacket that might fit her, but suddenly her movements still and when she draws back, she's holding what looks to be a worn piece of wood in her hand.

Oh. It's more than just a piece of wood. It's a wooden sword.

"Where did you get this?" she whispers, running her fingers along the grooves, the whirls themselves like the tree's own life story.

"I – I don't know," he answers honestly, frowning slightly as he steps forward to take a closer look. "I've never seen that before."

"But it's in your closet." Her tone is urgent, like she needs him to see what she sees, but even she doesn't seem to fully understand, as she whispers, "I had a sword like this when I was little." She swallows hard and David is surprised to find a tear slip onto her cheek. "I played with it so much, I broke it. I so desperately wanted to learn."

And he doesn't know what to say to that. He _can't _say anything to that. Not when his own emotions are so conflicted…

_"What if you kept one? It's silly for me to have two. You haven't taught me how to fight yet, so I can't play with anyone else until I play with you."_

_"Okay. I'll keep one. But just for you."_

"David?"

"Yeah?"

She places the sword almost reverently back on the shelf and hands him her coat in a calm manner that doesn't even remotely prepare him for what leaves her mouth next.

"I think my water just broke."


	19. Arrivals

**I've apparently ruined ducks and wooden swords for pretty much everyone. My bad. **

**This is for sheriffcharming, who's having a crap day. **

_Arrivals_

Hyperventilation.

That's what he's registering right now. Not him personally, he's fine. Actually he's so far on the opposite of the 'fine' spectrum, but Emma is beginning to hyperventilate and having his own personal meltdown will help absolutely no one.

"Okay," he nods. "Okay."

She grips his wrists, all semblance of the prior moment's calm gone, as she looks up at him with wide eyes, skin rapidly paling.

"Emma, breathe."

"I'm not having a contraction yet."

"But you're holding your breath. Don't do that." He tucks her hair behind her ears and smiles when she refuses to let go of his wrists. "Emma, look at me."

She shakes her head, staring resolutely at the floor. "I can't do this – "

"Sweetheart, look at me." He cups her cheeks in his palm, lifting her face to his. "You can do this, Emma. I have faith in you."

A tear splashes onto her skin and she inhales a rattling breath. "This is happening."

"This is happening."

"I can't do this."

"Yes you can. One step at a time," he soothes, brushing her tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

"It's too soon! He's early. He's not supposed to be early."

David's heart constricts because, yes, he's thought about that too. It is early, but perhaps not _too _early. He can only pray it's not too early.

"Emma, he is going to be fine," he says, hoping the fates don't make a liar out of him. "I need you to listen to me. We're doing this in steps, right?"

"Uh huh."

"First, you're going to put this on." He holds out the coat and she turns to slide her arms through the sleeves.

"Then what?"

"You're going to sit on the couch, still breathing, while I run and get your bag. Okay?" She nods but it's not good enough for him. "I need you to say 'okay."

"Okay."

His eyes never quite leave her as she makes her way to the couch, and he runs through the kitchen and into the laundry room, grabbing her bag at the same time he grabs the phone off the counter. It doesn't take him long to dial the numbers he knows by heart and when she picks up on the second ring, he sags against the wall for support.

"Hello?"

"Emma's in labor, I need help."

He hears her suck in a breath, but he realizes he needs more than that. He needs her voice. He just needs _her. _

"I told her it would all be okay, but I'm not sure it will be."

"David," she says calmly. It's a mere whisper yet it holds his rapt attention. "Emma's going to be fine."

"How do you know?"

"Because she has you."

His throat constricts and he wants to thank her, but his words won't work.

"You'll come?" he finally chokes out.

She's quiet for a moment, before replying, "If you want me to."

"I need you to."

"Then I'll meet you there."

He should go – Emma's waiting for him – but he can't quite disconnect. Not yet.

"David?"

"Yes?"

"I'll meet you there," she reiterates, unknowingly quelling the last little fear in his heart that he'd have to be there for Emma alone.

"Okay." Finally, he hangs the phone back on the receiver and tightens his grip on the handle of Emma's bag, schooling his panicked features into some semblance of calm.

"David?" Her voice is pained and his heart jumps into his throat almost as quickly as he bolts to the living room.

"Right here, squirt." The nickname is effortless, but he can't be bothered to wonder where it came from.

She smiles and winces, automatically reaching out for his hand. "This is going to suck, isn't it."

He watches as her knuckles whiten around his, and he marvels at her strength. "It's not gonna be pleasant. But I'm going to be with you the entire time."

"You won't leave?"

His heart breaks at the combination of genuine wonder and fear on her face, as if the concept of anyone staying by her side is completely foreign.

"I'll never leave." He places a kiss on her knuckles and helps her stand. "Let's go have a baby."

She nods, jaw firm. Determined.

"Let's."

xxxxxx

"_Dr. Whale, please report to OR two,"_ the speaker blares overhead and Mary Margaret glares at it while continuing her trek from the waiting room to the front desk and back again.

She's gnawing on the end of a pen and wearing a hole in the tiled floor, glancing at the front door every time it opens, expecting to see David and Emma and swallowing disappointment every time it's not.

Her heart is hammering a rapid, insistent beat, threatening to burst out of her chest every time she hears the familiar _woosh_ of the sliding doors. She shouldn't be this nervous – it's not like _she's _the one having the baby – and yet the thought of Emma in pain, of her going through that, makes the teacher slightly ill.

"Mary Margaret!" His voice is muffled, but she'd know it anywhere and she spins so quickly, she loses her balance.

"David?"

He's on the other side of the glass helping Emma into a wheelchair, and she hurries forward just as the doors slide open, quickly noting the panic on his face and the pain on Emma's.

Emma is reaching over her head and holding tight to David's wrist, since he needs both hands to steer, but the hand that's not grabbing onto him immediately reaches for Mary Margaret once she's close enough to touch.

The older woman stifles a gasp as Emma squeezes _hard_.

"Breathe, sweetheart," she finds herself murmuring as her anxiety dissipates and instinct takes over.

"It hurts," Emma groans.

"I know it does, baby," David says, and even he sounds pained as he flags down a nurse. Their eyes lock and for a moment, Mary Margaret forgets how to breathe, letting her hand rest on top of his as it grips the handle of the wheelchair. "Thank you," he mouths, relief shining through his gaze.

She nods and runs her thumb across his knuckles, letting go and breaking the stare only when the need to focus on where she's walking becomes paramount.

They're shown to a room and Emma has yet to let go of either David or Mary Margaret, despite the fact that she hasn't had a contraction since arriving. Actually, the girl seems to not be letting David move any farther than five feet away from her and any time it looks like he's about to, her eyes widen and she holds her breath until he moves back once more.

"What do you need?" he asks as he perches on the edge of the bed, and Mary Margaret is hit with such a sense of déjà vu that she doesn't even crack a smile when Emma's immediate response is "An epidural."

"_I can't have this baby now." _

"_Doc, do something." His cheek presses against her temple, his hand tight against her chest. "The wardrobe's almost finished. Just – just hold on."_

Doc…

An older man breezes through the door, adjusting his glasses on his face. "Well, Miss Swan. I'm seeing you earlier than expected."

"Is it too early? It's too early!"

Mary Margaret's mind is swimming, grasping at any memory – any vision – that might make her float.

"_It's too late. We can't move her." _

"_Push!" _

She blinks under the harsh fluorescents to find David looking at her strangely, Emma's hand tight in his. The doctor is talking, but Mary Margaret is only catching every other word:

"Fine… fully developed… sonogram… monitor…"

She wants to move to Emma's other side, an unknown desire making her want the girl to be flanked by both them. Mary Margaret and David, two battlements in a war. But the visions still dancing in her head and the voices echoing in her ears root her to the floor.

"… examination… centimeters… epidural."

Oh. Examination.

She shakes her head, coming back to herself and giving the doctor a tight smile. "I'll be outside."

David stands to join her, but Emma grips his arm. "Don't you dare leave."

"Emma – "

"Please. Just, you know, stay near my head." She gestures vaguely to her blanket-covered legs and he chuckles, eventually nodding.

"Fine."

Mary Margaret edges toward the door, stopping only when Emma calls her name.

"Yes?" She turns and sees David in the girl's face, as well as something else strangely familiar… But any shared features are a complete impossibility so Mary Margaret banishes the thought from her mind.

Gratitude and warmth shine through Emma's voice as she says, "Thank you for coming."

Mary Margaret inhales sharply, knowing that she'd do anything the people on that bed ever asked of her.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

xxxxxx

Graham hates hospitals.

He hates the harsh overhead lights and the constant scent of rubbing alcohol that seems to cling to his clothes for days. He hates the grief in the waiting room and the smugness on Whale's face when he makes a correct diagnosis.

Most of all, he hates that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever someone he cares about is admitted. And right now, that feeling is tying his insides in the most complicated of knots.

He turns the corner to find Mary Margaret sitting in a chair in the hallway, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. He likes catching her off-guard, since so rarely does she not have a front up. It's been a genuine pleasure watching her become comfortable around him – around _them_ – over the past few weeks. She's rapidly becoming one of his favorite people, even if she kicks his ass at poker.

"The bastard called you instead of me. _I _was supposed to be the first call," he pouts, falling into the seat next to Mary Margaret and slinging his arm over the back of her chair.

"What?" She's distracted – worried over Emma, no doubt. He knows the feeling well.

"David promised me he'd call the moment Emma went into labor. The only reason I'm here is because I saw his truck in the lot and put two and two together."

She smiles and pats his knee. "I'm sorry. David needed a little… encouragement."

"You passing out any more?" he jokes, but his knee is bouncing – a dead giveaway for his high anxiety levels.

"Always," she softly replies, nudging him slightly with her shoulder. It's a brave front, even though he can see the worry etched into her features.

"How long's she been in there?"

"A few hours," is the response and Graham swallows.

He wants to tell her it'll all be fine, pat though the response may be, but the door opens before he can get a word out and David strides into the hallway looking like a man whose calm façade is rapidly cracking.

"You," Graham points. "Big trouble."

"I'm sorry I didn't call." David's shoulders slump and Graham smiles, standing and wrapping his arms around the man who looks to be a second away from shattering to pieces.

"No permanent damage done." He pulls away but David's eyes aren't on him; they're gazing over his shoulder to Mary Margaret. And Graham wants to be jealous – he's been the only person David had to turn to for so long – and yet he can't deny that Mary Margaret and David just _fit _together. Even if they don't quite know it themselves.

He only hopes he finds someone to match his own puzzle piece.

"Graham, can you keep Emma company for a minute?"

His eyes widen in a way that says, 'Do not leave me alone with her,' but David gives him a look and Graham swallows hard.

"Okay."

Time alone with a woman in labor. There was no on-the-job training for this particular scenario.

Graham hates hospitals.

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret watches Graham trudge a little apprehensively toward the door, and it's only when it shuts behind him that David crumbles before her.

"What happened?!" She's pretty sure her heart has stopped beating and it's only when David speaks again that blood returns to her face.

"She's fine," he mumbles through the fingers that rub his eyes. "She's fine, the baby's fine, but _jesus_…"

Mary Margaret's arms are around him a moment later, and she actually feels the fight seep out of him as he sags against her small frame. He allows himself to be led into a chair and he sinks into it, taking Mary Margaret with him. She goes willingly, keeping one arm around his neck and moving the other to the hand in his lap. Her fingers rub circles by his jawline, just below his ear, and the tension eases from his shoulders as he sighs deeply.

"Better?"

"So much."

"It must be hard playing the calm, strong type," she whispers and he chuckles.

"You have no idea." His gaze finds the door as if he can see Emma through it. "The slightest thing will set her off. She's so strong and she doesn't let the panic show, but…"

"You can see it."

He nods. "I can see it. And it's killing me."

Her fingers move from his jaw to his collar, gently rubbing the material between her thumb and forefinger. It's an incredibly intimate gesture – one she never thought she'd have the courage to make – but David sighs and closes his eyes, leaning sideways and resting his temple against her chin.

If Mary Margaret could stay like this forever, she would.

She takes the moment to study him: his creased brow and the jumping muscle in his jaw. The vein by his temple that pulses with every beat of his heart and the way he interlaces their fingers with practiced ease. As if he's been doing it for years.

He would be a wonderful father. He _is _a wonderful father.

She's loathe to break this moment, but there's something she needs to say. Something he needs to hear. "David?"

"Hm?" He doesn't open his eyes, merely squeezes her hand to let her know she has his undivided attention.

"I know your life is about to gain another member, but if there's room for one more, I'd like to volunteer for the spot."

Her heart is pounding because she's never made herself more vulnerable in her life, but before she even has time to second-guess herself, David is sitting up and staring into her face, searching her eyes for answers she's more than willing to give.

"It's yours," he breathes, pressing his lips to hers and eliciting a little noise from the back of her throat.

She sinks into it, moving her hand from his palm to his wrist as he reaches up to cup her cheek and bring her closer. Eventually, her fingers find their way to his shirt and she fists the material in her hands, wanting never ever to be parted from him.

The fear of losing him hits her like a train and it's so palpable that her breath hitches in her throat. He slowly pulls away, pressing a kiss to her nose and each of her eyelids as his thumb strokes her cheekbone.

"It's always been yours."

And though she's only known him for a few weeks, she doesn't doubt the sentiment one bit.

xxxxxx

"I spy with, my little eye, something white."

Emma scoffs, rolling her eyes at the sheriff. "The whole damn room is white."

"Which is why my clue is the best ever," he retorts and she laughs.

She's happy he's here, despite the fact that she does wish David would return. Graham is her comic relief but David is her rock. He handles her contractions with grace and calm, while Graham looks terrified and a second away from bolting to the door.

"How far along are you?" he asks, leaning back and propping his feet up on the foot of her bed.

"More than halfway,' Doc said. Apparently I was in labor a lot longer than I thought."

Graham frowns. "How is that possible?"

"You know, you try being eight months pregnant when everything in your body hurts and you tell me the difference – "

"Whoa, whoa there," he says, holding up his hands. "Don't kill me, because then David would have to arrest you and where would that leave us?"

She settles for throwing a pillow at him before promptly demanding it back.

"Have you thought of a name?"

"I have."

"And?" Graham leans forward and she kind of loves how invested he's become.

"Not tellin'."

"Aw come on!"

"David gets to hear it first," she replies and the scowl on Graham's face eases.

"Fair enough."

She's about to tell him he can be godfather, though, figuring it's enough of a consolation prize, but her stomach muscles clench without warning – usually she gets a warning – and she cries out, slamming one hand down on the rail and reaching the other one out to Graham.

He's at her side a second later, perched on the edge of the bed and holding her tight to him. She must be crushing every bone in his hand, but he doesn't protest one bit. Merely murmurs soft encouragement in her ear as tears stream down her face.

They're getting worse. And closer together. Much closer together.

"You've got it, darlin'. And I've got you," he whispers and she knows he does. Behind David, Graham is the one she'd most trust with her life. With her son's life. With their happiness.

The door opens and her heart jumps but it's not David, it's Doc and he spares a glance for the sheet of paper the monitor at her side is spewing out before informing her that she's almost ready.

Oh God.

She's ready, but she's not. She's not emotionally or physically equipped for this.

"David!" she cries out, not even really knowing if he's within earshot, but he appears in the doorway a moment later and she sobs at the sight of him.

"I'm here," he says, striding over to her and taking the hand that Graham's passing off. Something unsaid is communicated between them, spoken only through the grip Graham places on David's shoulder and the nod the sheriff receives in return.

She can see Mary Margaret in the doorway, blowing her a kiss and she nods, hoping she looks more confident than she feels.

Graham is eventually ushered into the hall by a nurse and he stands for a moment next to Mary Margaret, placing his hands over his chest – over his heart – as if to say 'I'm here with you.'

She nods and he smiles before the door hides them from view.

"Stay near my head," she reiterates, though her voice is wobbly and her body is wracked with sobs.

"Okay," David softly replies, placing a kiss on her sweaty head and helping her sit up by sliding his arm behind her back.

Doc and the nurses set up for a few more minutes – minutes that she registers as nothing but pain and tears. David's side pressed against hers is the only source of comfort and she catalogues everything about him she can, just to make the seconds go by faster.

His blue plaid shirt and his faded jeans. The paint spattered on his boots from the baby's room. The cut on his knuckle from hammering the crib together. The faded pen marks on his hand listing diapers, formula and wipes.

The way he smells like coffee, pine and soap. The way his hand engulfs hers. The way he's been pretending to be fine for the past five hours, but she knows he's been worrying for the past five months.

"Okay, Emma…" Doc begins. "On three, I want you to push."

She can't do this.

"You can do this, Emma," David whispers.

"Three…"

She can't do this.

"Two…"

"I've got you, squirt."

She can do this.

"One…"

She bears down with all her might, wondering how many blood vessels she'll pop before her labor is through.

"Breathe, Emma," David firmly instructs and she takes a rattling inhalation.

Her body feels like it's being torn in two, but Doc tells her to push again so she does, running on nothing but maternal instinct and autopilot, holding onto to every syllable David whispers in her ear.

"Good! The shoulders are out."

The shoulders. Her baby has shoulders.

She sobs and falls back, expecting to hit the pillow, but landing against David's firm chest instead.

"Just a bit more. You're doing _so well,_" he says and she's so delirious, she actually believes him.

"Three, two, one!" Doc counts down once more and she pushes with energy that ran out long ago.

David is behind her, holding both of her hands and whispering things she can't even hear anymore, not over her screams, but then a noise erupts in the room, cutting through everything else.

A wail.

"Open your eyes, Emma." David is crying and his tears mingle with hers as he presses their cheeks together. "Meet your son."

Her eyes slide open and there he is, held up in Doc's hands, barely spanning the length of his forearm. He's quickly wrapped in a blanket and placed on her chest, warm and a little sticky, but she presses her lips to his forehead all the same, marveling at the child, the _life, _she's created.

"David, look at him."

A tear falls from his check as he kisses her on the forehead.

"He's perfect," David whispers and Emma can't help but agree. "Good job, kid."

The baby's wailing so she holds him closer, pressing his shivering body to the skin of her chest.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers that the nurses have backed off, giving them their moment, before they have to take the baby to get cleaned up. She's grateful, because there are some introductions she needs to make.

"David, this is Henry."

David laughs out something that sounds like a sob and gently runs his fingers over Henry's downy head.

"Nice to meet you, Henry."

"And, Henry, this is your…" she trails off and slowly meets David's gaze, allowing a thousand unsaid things to pass between them.

He's not Henry's father, but he's not just the man who took them in, either. He's so so much more.

"Henry, this is your David."

And that's it. He's David. He's their David.

The man himself closes his eyes and rests his chin on her shoulder, sighing so deeply, she rises and falls with his breath. She's not sure how long they stay like that – Henry nestled into her chest and Emma nestled into David's – but eventually the nurses take the baby and David eases out from behind her, stretching briefly, before she catches his hand and tugs him close.

This baby is the first thing she's done right and without him by her side, it likely wouldn't have been done at all.

"David. I can't…" she shakes her head because she, the woman with a thousand retorts, has lost her words.

xxxxxx

"I know," he replies, not needing to hear whatever it is she's struggling with.

He should go out and tell Graham and Mary Margaret that everything's okay, but Emma has other ideas as she pulls him down on the edge of the bed again, whispers "thank you" in a tone that "I love you" is usually reserved for, and presses a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

And that – that's when the pain starts.

"_As poor as we are, love is one thing I _can _afford. I will find a way to save this farm."_

"_You didn't see that coming, did you?" _

"_I thought we'd take the scenic route." _

"_You're a girl?"_

"_I have a name, you know." _

"_You'll find me?"  
_

"_Always." _

"_No one's ever been willing to die for me before." _

"_No one you can remember." _

"_The Queen took me to her palace." _

"_But I'm rescuing you." _

"_What did you do to her? What have you done?! Snow!"_

"_You're not coming with me?" _

"_At least let me say goodbye." _

"_We're engaged. I think it's about time you met my mother." _

"_Is there something I need to know?" _

"_I do." _

"_For our child." _

"_What's her name?"_

"Emma."

"_Save us."_

"Yes?" She looks up at him with his eyes and her mother's chin.

It's the first time in his life he's ever uttered his daughter's name, and he isn't quite sure what's supposed to come next.

_"Mr. Nolan, can we go feed the ducks? Miss Gordon said there are ducks."_

"I took you to the ducks."


	20. Interludes Part II

_Interludes Part II_

Sometimes he allows himself to think about what it would have been like to get her sooner. To change her diapers and teach her how to walk. To rock her to sleep and teach her how to ride a bike. To soothe her nightmares and kiss her boo boos. To hear "Daddy" leave her lips and know she's speaking to him.

He imagines suggesting a car ride, and in these fantasies, Emma loves car rides. She doesn't struggle when he locks her into the seat. She doesn't argue when he takes the long way to the water. She doesn't cry when the radio cuts out because he sings instead, and she doesn't tell him to stop, even if he's singing off-key.

In these fantasies, she's just happy to be there and when he finally, _finally _takes her by the wharf, her jaw drops and her eyes widen, giving him that awed, wondrous expression she reserves only for him.

Sometimes, David allows himself to think about what it would have been like to get her sooner.

But he didn't, so the imaginings never last for long.

xxxxxx

"So…"

Graham nods, silently pleading for David to come back in, to forget something and not leave him alone with the girl in front of him, but the bastard doesn't listen and the door remains firmly and disappointingly shut.

And Emma smiles, like she just heard that entire inner monologue. "So…" She sits on the couch, and props her feet up on the coffee table, claiming her territory. Graham swallows. "I'm assuming Storybrooke doesn't have much of a nightlife."

"You assume correctly." He raises an eyebrow, letting his eyes flick to her stomach.

"And what would _you _want with nightlife?"

It takes him a moment to realize that that might not have been the best thing to say. No, that fact doesn't sink in until her body freezes and her expression goes tight; and for a moment, he truly is worried that's she's about to flee. He has an odd feeling that he's seen deer with similar expressions.

"He told you," she finally says and Graham has a sudden, urgent feeling of _oh shite. _

He scrunches his face and rubs the back of his neck, looking at some point on the wall above her head. "Yeah… please don't be mad at him. He tells me most things. We're sort of… all each other has."

"That's adorable," she replies, in a way that is most definitely teasing.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, thinking that food is a safe, non-awkward topic.

"I'm pregnant, I'm always hungry. Except when I'm puking."

Nope. Still awkward.

He doesn't know how to handle teenagers. Or pregnant women. Or teenagers who happen to _be_ pregnant women. There's no manual for this and for a moment, Graham marvels at how well David adapts to these situations. Not that he's been in many.

"Pizza?" Emma asks, saving him from himself. "C'mon, Storybrooke's gotta have a decent pizza joint, or else I'm outta here."

"And what would David have to say about that?" It's a joke, but Graham knows. He'd be heartbroken.

Emma shrugs, skirting the rather weighty question, but Graham can see the conflict in her eyes. The hesitation, the _consideration_ of what her departure would do to the man who took her in.

"Pizza it is. Toppings?"

"Pepperoni?" she suggests.

"I knew I liked you." He reaches for the phone, punching in the number he's ashamed to say he knows by heart. And unfortunately, Emma calls him out on it.

"Don't cook much?"

"Shut up," he replies with a smile.

Pizza is ordered and an old Katharine Hepburn movie is found on tv. He keeps one eye on the film and the other on Emma, who keeps reaching over and stealing pepperoni slices off of his half of the pizza.

"Oi!" he yells on her third sneak attack.

"Blame the baby," she laughs as she pops it into her mouth.

"Oh that's not fair."

Graham will have to add 'shameless' to the list of things that Emma is, along with 'sardonic' and 'sublime.'

"Works every time," she sing-songs as she pops another piece in her mouth.

"They make _extra _pepperoni, you know. You can order it. It's a thing."

"I'm sure it is, but I'd rather go for yours." She leans back and places a hand on her barely visible bump. "It's closer."

He lets her win, which he's sure he'll do for the entirety of her stay. And which he's almost positive David does on a daily basis. Graham knows that, because Emma has a face you can't quite say 'no' to.

Still. When she challenges him to Monopoly, 'letting her win' barely even crosses his mind as Park Place and Boardwalk disappear under his fingers.

No. She kicks his ass fair and square and Graham wouldn't have it any other way.

xxxxxx

"Operation… Hellfire."

"Hellfire? No!" Emma immediately says, lifting a kernel of popcorn up to indicate she's ready.

"Lay it on me," Graham says, as he tilts his head back and opens his mouth. She tosses it and it bounces off his nose.

"You're two for six, Swan. Not very good."

"It's your fault you can't catch them."

"It's not my fault you can't aim!" he retorts and she throws another one, aiming purposefully for his eye.

"Oi!"

"It can't be Hellfire," she continues, ignoring him. "We're trying to get them together. Not set them up on a blind date with the devil."

Graham shrugs and says, "Could be fun," before opening his mouth again for Emma to try another kernel. She does and it hits his forehead this time. "You know, I'm really getting hungry over here."

"Shut up," she mumbles around her own mouthful. "It's gotta be romantic."

"Like… what? Operation: Fairytale?"

"Not all fairytales are romantic," Emma points out and Graham concedes.

"Operation: Dove? That's romantic, right? They set them loose at weddings, or something."

"Ooh! Operation: Dovetail!"

"What? How is yours better than mine?!" Graham leans forward in protest, but Emma throws another piece of popcorn to keep him at bay and he catches it flawlessly.

She cheers, despite the fact that his office is absolutely littered with pieces, but he doesn't want to celebrate.

"No, tell me how Operation: Dovetail is better than Operation: Dove. You just want to be the one who came up with the name, don't you," he says, coming over and stuffing a handful of popcorn in his mouth.

"I'm pregnant. You have to let me win."

"What?! You can't just make up rules as you go!"

"Sure I can. Watch: every popcorn kernel missed is worth two points more than if you actually make it. See? I won."

Graham's jaw drops, but he seems to know better than to argue with a pregnant woman. "Fine. But I pick out my own codename."

"Agreed."

"Renegade."

"Absolutely not."

But Graham can't voice his indignation; not when David is opening the door and eyeing the popcorn-littered floor with apprehension.

"What are you two up to?"

"Nothing," they simultaneously reply.

Emma groans and hangs her head as David raises an eyebrow and Graham bursts out laughing.

Yeah, they definitely could have timed that better.

xxxxxx

"How about this one?" Mary Margaret points to an oak display and Emma scrunches her nose and shakes her head.

It's too ornate. Too grandiose for a little kid unable to hold up his own head.

She wants simplicity. Something easy. A crib that represents her life at this particular moment in time, which is surprisingly uncomplicated. For once.

She takes a moment to run her fingers over the wood before moving on, falling into step behind the woman who agreed to accompany her. After five failed attempts with David, Emma really didn't think she could justify dragging him away again. But Mary Margaret was more than eager, and Emma is only too grateful to have the older woman smiling encouragingly at her, even as Emma vetoes every crib they come across.

"Are you excited?" The question comes after a few minutes' silence and it catches Emma off guard.

"Terrified' would be more accurate," she replies and Mary Margaret smiles. Emma takes comfort in her smiles; they're like a warm blanket on a cold night.

Just like David's.

"You'll be a great mom," Mary Margaret says with such conviction that Emma's breath catches.

"Oh, I don't know - "

"Of course you will. You're quick to love," is the reply and Emma's mouth opens, ready to refute, but it snaps shut before the argument can form.

Of all the ways to describe Emma Swan, 'quick to love' - on either the sending or receiving end - would not be the first phrase to come to mind. Emma _knows_ this, has had a lifetime of experience in this, which is why she's so thrown by Mary Margaret's complete sincerity. By the wide eyes and faithful smile that have come to define the woman before her.

And then it hits her. Mary Margaret describes her as quick to love because it's all she knows of her. It's all the evidence she's seen.

For the second time in her life, she let her walls fall and David stepped through the rubble. David, Mary Margaret, Graham, Ruby, Granny. They've all occupied a space in her heart she had sworn never to sublet.

This is an absolutely earth-shattering realization to come to, but Mary Margaret has already moved ahead, calmly perusing a rack of baby clothes as Emma tries dearly not to begin hyperventilating.

Eventually, she reminds her limbs how to work and follows after the brunette, wondering why - after 18 years of running - she finds it so easy to stop.

Here.

With them.

"I always wanted a daughter," Mary Margaret murmurs, tracing her finger around a pink cotton onesie and the longing in her voice makes Emma glance up and study her. At least she says it's the longing. Truth be told, the word 'daughter' leaving Mary Margaret's lips made something inside Emma pang. It was an ache both painful yet… hopeful.

"You've got time," she quietly responds, picking up the pink onesie's blue counterpart and placing it in her basket.

"Yes, I suppose I do." Mary Margaret smiles somewhat sadly at the rack of pink once more before inhaling deeply and plastering a fake smile on her face. "Picked a favorite story from the book yet?"

"Not yet. Did you?"

Mary Margaret shrugs, coming to rest at a crib that Emma is pretty sure is _the _crib. "I was always partial to Snow White and Prince Charming."

Emma stops. Huh. Prince Charming - the guy David looks so much like.

Maybe she's sort of partial to them, too.

"This one?" Mary Margaret asks, pointing to the crib.

Simple. Sturdy. Safe.

Her life at this particular moment in time.

"It's perfect."

xxxxxx

"Do you believe in fate?"

"Fate?" David's voice comes from beneath the crib as he reaches blindly for the hammer at his side. Emma nudges it closer to his outstretched hand with her toe, before flipping a page in the book on her lap.

"Yeah, fate," she responds and he chuckles.

"I'd like to believe in the concept of it, but I haven't seen much proof." He peeks out, narrowly avoiding whacking his head, and raises an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"

"The book… talks about it a lot." She traces the illustration on the page opposite the story of Snow White and Prince Charming. She has no idea why, but she keeps finding herself back here - on page twenty-three and reading words that shouldn't be as captivating as she finds them.

"Fate is only as powerful as you make it."

"Oh really? So what brought me to your door?"

"A crappy car."

"Hey!" She laughs at the answer and he smiles, winking as he disappears back under the crib, but his answer has thrown her.

When did he become the skeptic? He's always been in staunch support of things happening for a reason. His faith gives her leave to question everything that's happened to her up until now. The abusive homes and the nights spent in her car. The love she allowed herself to feel and the trust that was thrown back in her face. She's never had faith in some grand, master plan, which he why she needs him to show her the way.

Because if he doesn't trust that things happen for a reason, then who will?

"David, I really need you to believe in fate."

The hammering stops and he's quiet for a moment, before sliding back out from under the crib and sitting up, staring at her intently.

"I do believe in fate."

"But you just said - "

"I believe fate brought you to this town and made your car break down. I believe your map took you through Storybrooke on the night I happened to be on duty. I believe I was supposed to find you just as you were supposed to find me."

Her heart is pounding, but she doesn't dare tear her eyes away from his.

"I say I don't put too much stock in fate because I'm afraid fate will take you away again. And that…" he trails off, smiling faintly and tapping her knee. "That is not something I'm equipped to handle."

He returns to the crib and nonchalantly slides back under, as if he didn't just tip her whole world sideways.

The book falls from her lap, but she makes no attempt to catch it. It thuds to the floor, flipping open to the page whose spine has been broken the most.

_"Can you promise me our child will be safe? Can you guarantee it? Because he can." _

_"All right. For our child." _

"David?"

"Yeah?"

"I won't let fate take me away from you."

She nudges his boot with her toe and he emerges from beneath the bed he's building for her baby.

"Well then, that makes two of us."


	21. Long Roads

**Dedicated to sheriffgrahams, who said it was her life goal to get a Moats and Boats dedication. Well, love, it was my life goal to fill someone else's life goal, so "drinks all around," I say!**

_Long Roads_

Five: the number of seconds it takes him to catalogue every feature his daughter has inherited from him.

Three: the number of breaths he takes before he realizes all the oxygen in the world wouldn't be enough to fill his lungs.

Seven: the number of tears that drop onto Emma's cheek as she stares at him in bewilderment.

Two: the number of repetitions it takes for him to comprehend that he just blurted out "I took you to the ducks."

Four: the number of times he has to say it again in his head before he allows himself to believe that this Emma is _his_ Emma. His Emma twice over, infant and child.

Ten: the amount of fingers and then toes he counts on his grandson.

Ten: the amount he counts on his daughter, as well.

"What?" Emma –_ Emma_ – looks equal parts exhausted and confused as she stares at him with a slightly bemused smile.

Emma Emma Emma. He could say it every minute for the rest of his life and it still wouldn't be enough.

_"I'm not sure how this works – I don't know if you allow single foster parents, but if she'll have me, I want her." _

_"You want me?" _

"David? Are you okay?"

He's not sure. His baby just had a baby and suddenly he can't breathe. His body hurts and he grips his shirt over his chest, trying to contain every emotion currently fighting for attention. Is everyone awake? Is he alone in this? Please please don't let him be alone –

"_Emma, I need you tell you something. I will never, _ever_ hurt you." _

"_Okay." _

His bones are a second away from shaking to pieces and he's not sure anyone will be there to put him back together once more. His lungs ache and every breath is a battle –

"_You called me 'squirt."_

"_I did. Is that okay?" _

"David?"

_"Your parents must have had a very good reason for leaving you like they did. Now, I don't know them, but I know__you.__Maybe not very well, yet, but enough. And I know that no one could leave you unless absolutely forced."_

_"You think so?"_

_"I know so."_

"David!" Emma now looks panicked and that's the last thing he wanted.

"Just give me a minute," he murmurs, starting for the door and rubbing his hands over his face, realizing with startling clarity that he's missing a very important ring on his fourth finger.

"You're leaving?"

"And coming right back," he responds automatically, thanking his paternal instincts for immediately doling out concern when he himself is on the verge of inconsolable. "Mary Margaret and Graham…" he trails off, thinking of their counterparts, unable to go any farther. But their mere mention seems to be enough for Emma, who nods and gives him a watery smile.

"Hurry back."

The kiss he places on her forehead is fierce and lingering, as if he could pour decades worth of love into one brush of his lips. But he needs to get out of this room and the sooner the better, because if he doesn't get air, get space, get _answers _he will pass out in the middle of this delivery room floor.

His legs thankfully carry him to the door and he manages to grab hold of the handle before they give out entirely. He takes a moment, just a moment to brace himself before turning it, and he finds himself looking back over his shoulder at his daughter. His beautiful, strong, stubborn, wonderful half of him.

He made her. And he takes immeasurable pride at being able to lay claim to that.

As if sensing his gaze, Emma glances up once more as Henry is returned to her arms, and David stops to memorize this moment, every emotion and every fear that flicks across her face.

"I'm proud of you, squirt." He can barely get the words out, a thousand memories and moments flashing behind his eyelids of a little girl with blond curls who followed him around wherever he led.

A bit like a duck.

He hangs his head and turns the knob, knowing that one more second in this room will truly be the death of him, and walks briskly into the hall. Graham's is the first face he sees, anxiously pacing the hallway and spinning so quickly at the sound of the door, he nearly falls over. David needs a moment to gather himself, to reconcile his best friend with his wife's savior – a man he had only met once.

"_You're not coming with me?" _

Thinking back on it, David wishes he had said something more.

Graham's eyes are getting wider with every moment that David doesn't speak. Finally he breaks and blurts out, "Well?! Is she okay?" causing David's heart to sink.

Not awake then.

"Six pounds, eight ounces, twenty inches long," he whispers, chest constricting at the utter elation on Graham's face.

"Can I see her?"

David finds himself nodding and the sheriff is off like a shot in the direction of the room, but that's not what has David's attention. No, David's attention is focused solely on the woman walking toward him with a bottle of water in one hand as she nervously bites her nail on the other.

_Snow. _Thoughts of a wedding ring did nothing to prepare him for the sight of his wife.

"David!" she calls as she glances up and his heart shatters. She is Snow, but not, because there is no way she'd greet him with any name but 'Charming' on her lips.

She's in his arms a moment later, and he takes a step back to brace himself from the impact as he hikes her further off the ground. He needs this; he needs a lifetime of this. He feels her fingers slide through the hair at the nape of his neck and her breath is hot against the side of his throat.

"Everyone healthy?"

"_Our daughter just gave birth to our grandson and they're both perfect." _

That's what he wants to say because he should be sharing this moment with his wife, which Mary Margaret Blanchard is, but isn't – so he swallows hard and says, "Perfectly healthy," instead.

"Good," she whispers, tickling the skin under his ear.

He holds her tighter, burying his face in her neck, thrown for a moment by the lack of bountiful curls that used to hide his tears. She feels so familiar – the curve of her lower back that holds his clasped hands perfectly, her fingers tracing his jawline, her chest pressed to his. Its familiarity has his heart in a vise and every moment he stays here is another notch tightened.

It's too much. Too much to have her say "David," but him unable to say, "Snow" in return. To know that the daughter she gave birth to only yesterday it seems, is now an eighteen-year-old woman with a baby of her own. That David spent a few indescribable weeks with her before she was taken away again. That he's spent the last five months sharing a home and all the accouterments that come with it: banana pancakes, leather jackets, pajamas, features.

She has his eyes.

"I have to…" he trails off and breaks away, finding it too difficult to force air into his lungs.

"David?"

"I'll be right back," he croaks, trying desperately not to look at the confusion and hurt on her face as he stumbles down the hall, gaining speed until he turns a corner and smacks right into someone. A familiar someone, who grabs hold of him in an attempt to keep him still.

"Get off!"

"David," August harshly whispers, gripping the prince around his torso, effectively pinning his arms to his sides.

"Let go, Booth."

"Your highness, _stop_."

…

And stop David does.

xxxxxx

Graham's peering into the mass of blankets and studying the pink face swaddled in their depths with surprising seriousness.

His hands are shoved into his back pockets as if he's okay with looking, but not touching, and Emma can't help but bite her lip to hide her smile at the sight.

"Worth the effort, darlin'?"

"Every bit of it," she whispers, staring at the baby in what she's sure is a perpetual state of wonderment. "Do you want to hold him?"

Graham shifts, as if about to finally take his hands out of his back pockets, but he freezes a moment later. "Has David held him yet?"

She frowns. "No, not yet."

"Then best not. David should be the first, besides you."

She thinks she loves him a little bit more for that. Nothing romantic – not really. But a deep-deeded affection that makes something warm and fuzzy bloom in her chest whenever she sees him. Definitely not romantic.

"Then you'll be next in line," she says and he smiles at that. She pretends not to notice the way he stares at her staring at the baby.

"I think Operation: Dovetail was a success," he finally says and she blinks at the topic change.

"And what makes you say that?"

Graham smiles conspiratorially and leans in, despite the fact that they're the only ones in the room, save for Henry.

"I'm 99.9% positive that David and Mary Margaret made out when I was in here earlier."

Her jaw drops, because really, he could have picked a better time – but she's also simultaneously elated. They deserve each other. They _need _each other.

"I guess we'll have to move on to Part B.

"Right you are. I guess we should figure out what Part B is," he replies, scratching the back of his head with a smirk.

"Guess so," she chuckles, sucking in a breath when he stands, and marveling at the fact that she really doesn't want him to go.

"I best go find your wayward David, because I want to hold that little guy sooner rather than later," he says and her heart bursts. "You'll make a great mum, darlin'."

She blames her hormones when a tear splashes on her cheek as she thanks him.

xxxxxx

August exhales audibly as he closes the door to the nearest empty supply closet, trying not to focus on the fact that he just shoved _royalty_ through.

"What is happening?" James – _David – _is panting and leaning against a shelf containing extra surgical scrubs.

"Emma broke your curse." The answer almost seems too simple. Too easy an explanation to describe the path that got them here.

"Did she break yours too? Why isn't Snow awake? Or Graham? What – "

"I was never cursed," August replies and he watches as the blood drains from the prince's face, before it hardens into something August hasn't seen in… well, a long time.

"Then who are you?"

"Someone who's here to help you," he says, holding up his hands.

"But you know who I am."

"I do. Your highness." August gives a little nod and David stares at him for a moment before rubbing his hands over his face.

"How? How did she break it?"

"She loves you." And August watches as his answer knocks the other man silent. "You're the closest thing to a father she's had her entire life. She might not remember that _you _were the one who took care of her all those years ago, but she remembers being loved. She remembers happiness."

David turns away and August pretends not to notice his shaking shoulders.

"There's a reason she came back to Storybrooke. A reason she found _you_. You were her father before she even knew you were the only one for the job. She kissed you and your curse broke."

David's hand brushes against his cheek, as if feeling for the phantom press of her lips.

"She's my daughter."

"She is."

"But I look the same."

"And you will, until the curse – _everyone's _curse – is broken."

David nods, and August appreciates the fact that he's sort of rolling with this even though it's an awful lot to wrap one's mind around.

"I'm not sure I can do this alone," the prince says, in a rare moment of doubt and vulnerability.

And for once, the wooden boy gets to step up to the plate.

"You're not alone."

He places an awkward hand on the man's still-shaking shoulder and squeezes, breathing out a sigh of relief when David offers him a small smile.

"I should call you 'August?"

August nods.

"But that's not your real name."

It's not a question and August doesn't answer it.

"I figured." David stares at nothing in particular and August takes a moment to study him – a prince who's lived decades and yet is not all that much older than August's own 25 years. What must it be like to have experienced so much hope and heartbreak?

August almost wants to never find out. Almost.

"I should get back to Emma," David finally says and his voice catches on her name. August opens the door, allowing David to step through first just in time to hear a woman's voice echo down the hall.

"David?"

The man in question leans against the wall, before sliding to the floor, and August isn't entirely sure why until he gets a good look at her. Oh. Snow White. Her voice alone could level kingdoms let alone their princes.

"She cannot know," he whispers and David nods in response. It's resigned and heartbroken, and August would be lying if he said he didn't feel just a fraction of the other man's pain.

It's his first time laying eyes on Snow White since the day his father put him in a wardrobe with a task and a promise, and now that she's here in front of him, August isn't sure what to do with himself. She was always kind to him. Always had a gift or a treat hiding in one of her pockets on the off chance she saw him around the castle.

And he loved her for that.

She crouches down in front of David, sparing a small smile for August even though she has no idea who he is, and places her hands on David's knees.

"You okay?"

He nods, beyond words now.

"Emma's looking for you. She won't let Graham hold the baby until you do, and Graham's anxious, shall we say."

The ghost of a smile appears and August marvels at how they bring that out in each other – that bright flicker of hope in the darkest of days.

"Can't keep the sheriff waiting, then, can we?" The mask is back – that princely mask that August assumes all royalty are taught, so as to not give away their true feelings.

Because right now, August knows for a fact that the man before him is blissfully overjoyed and yet entirely devastated –

But not a flicker of either appears on his face.

xxxxxx

Henry whimpers as Emma adjusts him, buttoning up her hospital gown and marveling at how she's able to feed another human being when she herself can barely handle the toasting of pop-tarts.

_Knock Knock_

"Come in," she calls, smiling brightly when David's head peeks around the door. "Hey stranger." Her voice is inviting, but only when he's close enough does she reach out and punch him in the arm. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Ow," he rubs his bicep, but he's looking at her as if for the first time.

"You just delivered a baby," he says softly. "Forgive me for being a little overwhelmed."

"Get in line," she snorts, but her chuckle dies on her lips as he leans forward and presses another kiss to her head.

"Mind if we join you?" Mary Margaret says from the door and Emma beckons her in, followed by Graham.

"Has he held him yet?" Graham asks and Emma rolls her eyes.

"Give him a minute," she responds, looking up at David with questioning eyes and he nods eagerly, so she holds her arms out and he gingerly takes the baby, tucking him into the crook of his elbow.

And Emma sighs, finally feeling like all is _right._

Henry is so tiny in David's arms, barely fitting from palm to elbow, and David is looking down at him like Henry holds all of the answers to life's secrets. It's the way a father should look at their child.

Which is why she's so thrown off guard when he glances up and fixes her with the exact same expression.

"Can, um, can you hand me my bag?" She curses the wobble in her voice, but Mary Margaret hands it to her all the same. She wants to give Henry something of _hers, _something more personable than the bland pale blue blanket the hospital has wrapped him in.

What she's not expecting, however, is the gasp that comes out of David's mouth when she pulls her baby blanket from the bag and spreads it open, the purple ribbon standing out even more against the white hospital sheets.

"Are you all right?"

But David doesn't speak or even nod; he just stares at the blanket as a thousand things seem to pass across his face. Even Mary Margaret is staring at it oddly and Emma wonders if she's truly losing her mind. But no, Graham seems to be unaffected as he eyes the baby in David's arms like a child who's loaned his favorite toy to someone else.

Finally, David rips his gaze from the white wool, focusing back on her with an intense yet curious look that nearly knocks the wind out of her.

"You found me," he whispers.

"Where did you go?" she replies.

"Nowhere."

His eyes return to the baby in his arms, but hers stay on him – as if some inexplicable force would take him away if, for a single moment, she looked anywhere else.

xxxxxx

Emma spends two days in the hospital before she's discharged and the drive home is one of the most terrifying of David's life.

He goes 10 miles an hour in a 25 mph zone and checks on the car seat in the rearview mirror every two seconds. Emma's biting her lower lip to keep from laughing, but she doesn't say a word, and for that, David is grateful.

xxxxxx

It takes them approximately thirteen minutes in the house to break the first toy and another seven to figure out how on earth the so-called 'diaper genie' works.

David spends the following hour checking to make sure that every outlet still has its plastic plug thingy, despite the fact that Henry won't be walking (or even crawling) for months.

She loves the overprotectiveness, and yet she still catches him staring at her when he thinks she's not looking in a way that is completely overwhelming.

It's like he's just now realizing she's actually here and he can't quite believe it.

"Hey," she says, grabbing his arm on his ninth pass through the living room, checking the childproof locks, "I'm not going anywhere."

"What?"

She knows his tones well enough by now to know that he's thrown.

"I'm not going anywhere. Neither is Henry. Stop looking at us like we're about to disappear. We've been home for barely three hours."

"Right," he says, after a moment's silence. "Right." He gives her a smile and places a kiss on Henry's head as he heads off into the bathroom to check the safeties there.

And she watches him go, wondering why she still feels uneasy whenever he leaves the room.

xxxxxx

August reaches up to throw another pebble at the window, but halts when the door opens and David emerges.

"And what would you have done if Emma answered your call?" he asks wryly, coming down the porch steps and meeting August on the sidewalk.

"Run in the other direction."

David laughs and August still gets a little thrill at knowing he made the prince smile. It doesn't last long though and his features sober, fixing August with a piercing gaze.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Sir…" August inhales and shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling more like a lost little boy than a 25-year-old man at the moment. "I owe your family a debt I'm not sure I'll ever be able to repay."

David looks at him sharply, eyes narrowing in searched for recognition.

"Who are you?"

"That's a story for another time." He suffers under David's scrutiny for a few moments more, before the prince crosses his arms and turns back to stare at the house, gaze seeming to sweep for work that has to be done.

"So what happens now? We get Emma to break the curse? It was prophesied to break on her 28th birthday. Not her 19th."

August gives a slow shrug. "I honestly don't know if we can break it early."

David is silent, but his stony features give enough away. "We've got a long road ahead of us, don't we."

"Yes, sir. We do." August follows David's gaze up the second floor window, from which emanates a warm glow. "Are you up for it?"

David's jaw clenches and, for a moment, August sees the Prince in him once more, staring out over his best-laid plans.

"That's my daughter and my grandson up there. I'm up for anything."


	22. Ultimatums

**This dedication is two-fold. 1) To ginniffergoodwin, whose mission was to get a Moats and Boats dedication. And 2) to snowcharming, who got her license today.**

_Ultimatums_

She's dreaming of green party hats and cake when she hears it: the low whimper of a baby that steadily grows in pitch. But that can't be, because no babies were invited to her party, just David and Graham and Mary Margaret. She's pretty sure Ruby and Granny are there, too.

But that can't be possible either, because she didn't know David when she was six. She didn't know _any_ of them. And as Emma stands there clutching a pair of wooden swords to her chest, she's nearly positive that she most definitely just turned six.

The whimpering continues, becoming a wail, before Emma is pulled from her dream, blinking slowly and taking in her surroundings. She's in her bedroom in David's house – theirhouse. The wailing has stopped, but it takes another moment for _Henry _toenter her psyche.

She's out of bed quickly but gingerly, her body still recovering from the battle it won. Her toes dig into the carpet as she tiptoes over to the baby's room, but what she sees when she gets there stops her as suddenly as a wall.

David is settling into the wooden rocking chair that Marco custom built for them, Henry in one arm and a bottle in the other. And Emma is pretty sure that her heart has fallen somewhere on the floor near her feet.

"Shhh," he whispers. "None of that. You're gonna wake up your mom."

She steps back and leans against the wall, willing her hormones not to make her burst into tears at what she's hearing.

"She needs her rest," David continues, and she hears the distinct creak of the perfectly carved wood. He's rocking her son as he feeds him at 3:34 in the morning, even though the man worked the night shift last night, just so Emma can catch a few extra hours of sleep.

David Nolan is too decent for his own good.

She rests her head against the wall and closes her eyes, knowing she should be sleeping but unable to move from her spot, glued to every word that's whispered in shared confidence.

"You came early so you're a little small now, but one day, you'll grow up to be big and strong. And when that happens, I'll teach you how to do big boy things. Like sword-fighting and horseback riding."

Emma frowns. When on earth did David become an expert swordsman? Or a horseback rider, for that matter? Her eyes slide shut as her body refuses to comply with her deep desire to hear the rest of this one-sided conversation.

"I'll tell you a secret, kid. You've got your mother's chin..." He trails off and Emma wonders what's so secretive about that, but then he says, "And your grandfather's forehead."

She drifts off, succumbing to dreams of cake and red leather jackets, thinking something about that sentence was not quite right.

xxxxxx

He places Henry back in his crib, a relatively insignificant moment, but for a father whose child never saw the inside of hers, it's taking every ounce of strength he has not to breakdown right there in the middle of the nursery.

And the glass mobile over the bed isn't helping matters.

"Sleep well, young prince," David murmurs, brushing his lips across the baby's downy head and grabbing the now empty bottle on his way out.

He doesn't make it very far and it's a near miss when he practically topples forward in an effort to not kick Emma where she's sprawled out on the carpet.

He catches himself on the wall, holding his breath as she shifts in her sleep, but she never wakes. Sighing and smiling slightly, he scoops his arms under her knees and back, deftly lifting her into the air. She groans quietly, burying her face into his shoulder, and he inhales sharply.

It's not the first time he's put her to bed, but it's the first time that he, David the shepherd, is tucking in the child a silver necklace once foretold he'd have. The child his mother sacrificed herself for.

It's an oddly wondrous thing to be able to hold one's grandson and one's daughter in the same minute. Thankfully, her covers are still kicked to the foot of the bed and he eases her onto the mattress, pulling the blanket up under her chin.

He could count how many nights she had gone to sleep without someone there to tuck the covers in around her body. He could do the math, if he wanted to. It's a number far greater than he thinks he can handle, so for a moment, he allows himself to remember the nights that he _was _there. The nights when little feet would pad across the carpet and curl up under his covers in an attempt to hide from the demons in the dark. And he'd pull her closer, whispering words of encouragement as she settled against his side and slumbered once more. Safe in the knowledge that he'd watch over her.

The memory now comes easily, despite the spells that previously locked it away. Anger spikes through him as he gazes at his daughter, his Emma, so like that little girl that came to him in the night. Because one person took her away from him twice, and David will be damned if he lets that happen again.

Regina.

His hands ball into fists and he exhales sharply, but silently cursing her in the middle of the night will do nothing for the situation at hand. His wife is across town, unaware that she made a vow to love him until death do them part. He's held up his end of the bargain by merely surviving. At the very least, he'd like to be given credit. At the most, he'd like to hold her in his arms until the reaper comes to collect his due.

He should go to bed, he really should – the effects of his nightshift are hitting hard – yet he can't tear himself away from the sight of her – the perfect amalgamation of him and

Snow – the product of True Love.

"Look what I made, Mother," he whispers into the air and, deep down, he knows somehow she heard him.

He's not sure how much time passes. Enough for light to begin peeking over the trees as he pads back to his room.

It still feels odd to be in this bed when he remembers the feel of the other. Dark oak, miles of bedding, and pillows for days. He made love to his wife in that bed, conceived their daughter in that bed, held Snow's hand as Emma was delivered into this world in that bed. He doesn't miss it, per se, but he misses what it stood for. What it represented.

A marriage, a trust, a love. And now, he's not even sure if the framework still stands. Not sure what has become of their land, of their _home._ But he cannot worry about that home when this one is still hanging very much in the balance.

The bed is hard beneath his back and there is a wedding ring in the bedside drawer that is not his. David Nolan's perhaps, but not Charming's.

He swallows hard as he stares at the ceiling and the pattern the shadows from the trees are casting.

He's not sure he can do this. But he is a deputy. A Prince. A King.

He was never really given any choice in the matter.

xxxxxx

"Morning person" is not the first thing that comes to mind when describing Emma Swan. She knows this, which is why she's truly trying to make an effort not to pass out on the couch as she attempts to burp Henry.

David is still sleeping, and rising before him is definitely a first. Yet Emma magically awoke in her bed, which means someone had to have put her there. She briefly wonders how long he watched over her son before tending to her.

She should do something to thank him, make banana pancakes or something, but frankly, just the _thought _of cooking is utterly exhausting.

"Come on, kid, burp," she groans, and Henry obliges, much to her relief. "Thank you."

"Just wait – come thirteen, he won't be so quick to comply," David says and Emma squints her eye open to find him leaning against the doorframe, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Morning, sunshine."

He groans, which is usually her response when he offers her the same greeting. My, how the tables have turned.

"Better stop at Granny's on your way into the station."

"Mmm." He nods and heads for the kitchen, narrowly missing the wall on the turn. She hears him rummaging around in the cabinets, banging various pots and pans together, before he calls out, "Pancakes?"

"Oh I knew I loved you," she replies and the clattering promptly stops. "David?"

"Sorry." His voice sounds rough, but he clears his throat and bangs another pot. "Banana?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

He chuckles. "Guess not."

She sighs as she settles back into the cushions, watching as Henry grips her shirt in his tiny fist. His eyes slowly blink open and close in that post-food I'm-so-happy coma she envies. She traces his bitty eyebrows before gently bopping him on the nose. He barely stirs, so she runs the pad of her finger over his head, blowing gently on dark hair inherited from his father.

She never thought it would be possible to love so much so quickly. Even David, an easy person to love if there ever was one, took weeks to earn her trust. Though if she's honest with herself, she loved him well before she was able to admit it.

But if she can feel so much happiness from one glance at Henry, what did she lack when her parents looked at her and still decided to let go?

"Hey," David says, and she glances up to find him standing in the doorway, a smudge of flour on his cheek. "You okay?"

She nods, but he knows her too well; she can't lie her way out of this one.

"What's up, squirt?"

She smiles and finds she's kind of warming to the nickname. It's oddly comforting.

But she can't ask him what's so wrong with her – why no one wanted her. She can't ask why he's been acting so weird ever since they brought Henry home from the hospital. It's not a bad weird, but she can't tell him to explain why every time he glances at her, it's as if he's staring at her for the first time.

She can't because she's not sure she's ready for the answer, so instead she voices a particular question that's been bothering her since the moment he uttered it.

"You said you took me to the ducks. What did you mean?" She watches as his face pales and his eyes widen ever so slightly.

If she didn't know any better, she'd say he almost looked afraid. Afraid and yet hopeful.

"Henry," he blurts out. "I meant I'll take you and Henry to the ducks." He shifts his weight and scratches the back of his neck. "Why?"

She shakes her head, feeling like some great revelation is just out of her reach.

"No reason."

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret idly toys with her napkin as Ruby pours her another mug of hot chocolate. It's 7:14 in the morning and she doesn't have to be at school for a while, but David likes to pop in before the early shift and… well. Any excuse to run into him, really.

It's terrifying how badly she misses him – and she only saw him the day before yesterday, when she dropped off dinner knowing neither of them had the energy to cook.

It's terrifying and yet exhilarating, because she's feeling things she thought fate would never allow her to find.

"Nice picture," she warmly says, pointing to the framed photo of Emma holding Henry, with David giving a goofy thumbs-up over her head.

Ruby follows her gaze and chuckles. "Yeah, we couldn't leave without getting a pic of our newest little employee. How are they?"

"Uh, good, I think. I stopped by the other day – "

"I bet you did," Ruby interrupts, raising a suggestive eyebrow and winking. Mary Margaret rolls her eyes, which does nothing to hide her scarlet flush.

She really must work on that.

The bell over the door rings and she knows it's him. Without even turning around, she knows he just walked in. Maybe it's the way the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Maybe it's the way she can smell his faint aftershave, even above the strong scent of coffee and bacon that pervades the diner. Maybe it's just because it's him, and her body reacts like a magnet any time he's within reach.

"Hey," he says, sliding onto the seat next to her. And she smiles, because she's not the slightest bit startled by his appearance.

"Hi." She pushes her mug towards him and he gratefully takes a sip. "You look tired," she whispers, cupping his cheek and running her thumb gently across the dark circles under his eye.

"Yeah, Henry hasn't quite grasped the concept of sleep, yet. We're working on it," he replies, gently pulling out of her grasp.

"Well, he's only five days old. Give it at least eight," she jokes, but the smile slowly fades from her lips because he can't seem to meet her gaze. And he always meets her gaze, holds it, and is the last to break it. "You all right?"

"Of course," is the quick reply, but there's something about it. Something about _him _that's different.

Gently, she takes his chin and forces their eyes to meet. And she nearly gasps at the combination of longing and loss she sees there.

"You're lying," she murmurs.

"I know," he replies, and for a moment, he looks so broken – so utterly irreparable – that she leans forward, pressing her lips to his as if the mere touch could make him whole once more.

He freezes for a moment before sinking into it, sliding forward on his stool so he's perched on the edge and tugging her closer to him.

She pulls back and he makes a noise in his throat, but when she blinks her eyes open, she notices his are still shut. As if holding onto the moment for as long as humanly possible. And when he does finally look up, she sees more desolation clouding those blue pools than ever before.

"Talk to me." Her hands move to his knees and she grips them tight. "Is it Emma?"

He shakes his head.

"Henry?"

He shakes it again.

"David – " she starts, quieting when Ruby approaches.

"How's the baby?"

"Perfect," David replies with a level of composure he lacked moments before. "The largest coffee you have, Ruby. Please."

"Sure thing." She disappears once more, taking David's calm façade along with her.

Mary Margaret doesn't say a word, just continues rubbing circles on his jean-clad knee, wondering what on earth happened in the past two days. Thinking back on it, though, he was a little distant when she dropped dinner off, but she attributed that to the screaming baby he was holding at the time. Truth be told, she could watch him hold babies every hour of every day until the end of time, but unfortunately, she had parent teacher conferences to get to.

David presses his hands on top of hers, stilling both her movement and her breath. And his gaze catches on her left hand, or more particularly, the ring that resides on her middle finger. He's seen it before. Heck, he's _held _it before – when she gave it to him for safe keeping while she insisted on washing the dishes. But now, he's staring at it as if it's the most precious jewel in the world.

"Sn – Mary Margaret, I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything," she replies and he smiles a smile that's more heartbreak than happiness.

"If I seem… different… or something, right now, I need you to bear with me. I meant what I said. That spot has always been yours. For longer than you realize."

And then he takes her hands and places a kiss on each of her palms; and the diner fades away as she stares at him studying the grooves of her skin.

"I'll take it." And even if he hadn't offered it again, she'd fight for it.

"I was hoping you'd say that." He smiles through watery eyes as she runs her thumb across his knuckles.

Through some sort of bone-deep truth, she knows that her place is at his side.

And for the first time in her life, she thinks she's finally found something worth fighting for.

xxxxxx

Regina's coffee is bitter in her mouth as she watches the sappy exchange. She can't hear what's being said but the body language is enough to make her push her apple pancakes away with disgust.

It was easy to make Emma Swan disappear when she was a child. A filed complaint and a magical reboot were all she needed to ensure the safety of her curse. What she didn't plan on, however, was for Emma to find her way back to Storybrooke. Or, more importantly, to _him._

It's dumb luck that she seems not to remember her prior stay, but that won't last. Regina's seen flickers of familiarity cross the girl's face and it's only a matter of time before the walls come down. Before the past she's tried so hard to suppress comes back.

She's waited to act because Emma was no longer only Emma. She was Emma and a child – and though Regina is considered by many to be a heartless human being, she does indeed have a steady beat in her chest.

But the child is no longer a part of Emma, and if the sight before her is anything to go by, Regina might have let things get a little too out of hand.

It's one thing for Charming to care for Emma. It's entirely another for Snow White to enter the picture.

Yes, Regina thinks. Something might have to be done.

And so involved is she in her machinations that she never notices the man watching her carefully from the booth in the corner. The man with determination in his eyes and regret on his face, as he zips up his leather jacket and slips out the back door.

xxxxxx

Graham tucks the stuffed wolf under his arm as he makes his way up David's front porch and rings the bell.

"Just a second!" Emma's voice calls out and Graham hears the telltale thump of her running around the house, making him briefly reconsider his decision to come.

But before he can second guess himself, the door swings open, revealing Emma in all her untamed glory. Her hair is up in a messy bun, she's wearing one of David's flannel shirts and her eyes have a wild look about them, like an animal caught in a trap.

"Graham?"

"Uh, hi." He smiles and holds up the stuffed wolf. "This is what godfathers do, right? Bring toys and give the kid chocolate before dinner?"

She raises an eyebrow. "I think he's little too young for chocolate."

"Hence the wolf," he replies, holding it up proudly.

She chuckles and backs up, allowing him to step through into the foyer and survey the wreckage the little infant has caused. A basket full of dirty clothes, baby and adult alike, an open pack of diapers, a few bottles…

Graham chuckles that David's usually tidy home now resembles his own man cave.

"So what's up? Other than the wolf," she says, gesturing to the toy.

"Oh right." He passes it over and shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I heard that mums are supposed to sleep when the baby sleeps, but the baby doesn't always offer Mum the same courtesy. So I thought I'd come take him off your hands for a bit so you could rest. Or something," he finishes after a moment's pause.

She's looking at him like he's grown another head, which isn't exactly instilling much confidence in him.

"Look, I know I'm no one's first choice for babysitter, but it's either come hang out with you two or watch the Red Sox lose to the Yankees, and frankly I don't think I can take that kind of punishment. Again."

It sounds ridiculous, but it's true. He'd get more enjoyment from a baby spitting up on him than downing a case of beer. And suddenly, he has a groundbreaking thought: is this what growing up is like?

Emma seems to be regarding him curiously, before she finally smiles and gently shoves him into the living room.

"I would kill for a hot shower. Can I trust you alone with him for fifteen minutes?"

"Hell, you can make it twenty," he cheekily responds and she rolls her eyes.

"He's pretty content to just lie there and stare at the ceiling, but a few funny faces couldn't hurt."

Graham looks over to where Henry is lying on a blanket spread out on the floor. "Funny faces, got it."

He's giving off an air of confidence, but the moment she ascends the stairs, he stares at Henry with something akin to dread.

"Okay… you and me, kid," Graham mutters as he eases himself down to the floor and peers at the baby. "Don't… you know, make me look bad. No screaming, no projectile vomiting. Just calm, cool…" he flicks the television on, "baseball."

Emma comes down eighteen minutes later to find Graham on the couch with Henry in one arm and a bowl of popcorn in the other, mid-triple play. "No no no! Slide slide slide!"

"I thought you didn't want to see the Red Sox lose?"

Graham smacks his forehead and groans as the inning ends. "Gotta teach Henry America's favorite pastime."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "You're not American."

Graham waves his hand. "Technicalities."

She pads into the living room and takes a seat on the couch next to him, reaching over and stealing a handful of popcorn.

"So who's winning?" she asks with a sly smile.

"You don't want to know."

He's not sure if she's even into sports, but he stays by her side until the seventh inning, when she promptly passes out with her feet on his lap.

He tells himself that he doesn't spend the remainder of the game focused more on her than on the score, but he's lying.

And when David comes home, eyeing the scene with no small amount of mirth, Graham denies that the feeling that settles into his gut is anything remotely like guilt.

xxxxxx

David is stirring chili over the stove when he hears Emma pad in behind him.

"When did you get home?" she croaks.

"About an hour ago," he replies, shifting Henry on his shoulder. The baby is small enough to hold with one hand and David can't help sneaking a whiff of his scent every couple of seconds, letting his nose brush against Henry's soft head.

"You've gotten good at that," she says, taking a seat at the table and he turns, noting she looks significantly more rested than she did when he left for the station. He's grateful to Graham for that.

"At what?"

"Multitasking."

"Ah." He glances at the baby and chuckles. "It helps that he's portable."

"Mm. Smells good."

"Well, I made enough for a small army, so I hope you're hungry."

"Starved," she replies, and he's never felt his split personalities more than he does in this moment.

He's cooking using knowledge that David Nolan learned, yet he's also acutely aware that his grandson is in his arms, and his daughter is just steps away. It's strange to feel two sides fighting for dominance, and he hopes it's only a matter of time before the prince and the mere mortal learn how to coexist. Because at the moment, it's incredibly confusing. He remembers fighting with a sword to get her to safety, but he also remembers her unwrapping her own pair of swords on a birthday whose ending was both abrupt and unbearable.

"Can you taste this? Let me know if it needs more cumin," he gruffly says, attempting to root himself in the present, though still haunted by the past.

"Uh huh," she replies, but she sounds distant – distracted – and he turns to find her studying a folder that had been sitting on the table. It's not the only thing that's there either – a small bag and a few clothing items reside on the chairs as well.

"What's all that?"

"I cleaned out my car. This," she holds up the folder, "is Henry's birth certificate."

"Oh." He isn't quite sure what else to say. Emma didn't let anyone see the certificate, and to this day he's never asked who Henry's father is.

He's not entirely sure he wants to know.

"I need you to look at this for a moment," she says, pushing the folder towards him and he eyes it warily, before shifting Henry and brushing his free hand on the towel slung over his other shoulder.

He briefly reads _Father: Neal Cassidy_ but that's not what's holding his gaze. No, his gaze is glued to Henry's name, and more importantly, what comes after it.

_Henry David Swan_

Three words. Five syllables. A seven-pound baby who's managed to take his heart and run with it.

"Emma…"

"Is it okay? I probably should have asked, but I wanted to and it seemed like the least I could – " she's interrupted when he kneels down beside her and pulls her into the side of his body that Henry isn't occupying.

"It's perfect," he whispers, ignoring the salty tears staining his lips. "It's beyond perfect."

And because she's given him this, he doesn't care who Neal Cassidy is. He doesn't care that he's having a slight identity crisis. He doesn't care that he's too young to be a grandfather, or that he has an insurmountable task ahead of him.

His grandson shares his name and everything else seems insignificant in comparison.

"Thank you," he finally says, pressing a firm kiss to her head. "Thank you so much."

She chuckles as she pulls away, wiping at her own eyes. "David, look what you've done," she says, gesturing to the chaos around them. "You took me – _us – _in. You gave us a home. I wish I could give you more than just a middle name, but right now it's all I have."

And then she says something that would have brought him to his knees, had he not already been on them.

"He's as much yours as he is mine."

And it takes all of David's strength not to reply, _"I can lay as much claim to you as him." _But he doesn't, because she's not ready for that yet.

A dark part of him wonders if she'll ever be ready for it.

He places another kiss on her head, the only way he knows how to show his gratitude, and returns to the chili, hoping that his minor emotional meltdown hasn't burned the tomatoes.

"The kid's lucky, I guess," she begins. "I don't even know what my middle name is."

"Ruth," he blurts out without thinking and, _dammit_ Charming. He closes his eyes and bites his tongue, relishing the pain as punishment for his stupidity.

"Ruth? Did you just pull that out of the hat?"

He shrugs. "Guess so."

She looks thoughtful and David can see his mother in her calculating features. It's the same look she wore while trying to haggle the grain merchant, he remembers with a pang.

"Ruth," she repeats, trying it out on her tongue. "I kinda like it."

"Then it's yours," he says softly, not bothering to tell her that she's owned it for the past eighteen years.

He continues cooking, telling himself it's the onions that are making his eyes sting, but his attempt to set the table is thwarted as Emma dumps out a small bag of splintered wood where their plates should go.

"What on earth is this?" he asks, as he places Henry in his carrier.

"My sword," she quietly replies and he freezes.

"But you said – "

"I said I broke it. I never said I didn't keep the pieces."

Oh.

_Oh. _The sword whose brother resides in his closet. The swords Mary Margaret gave to Emma on her sixth birthday. The sword she asked him to keep, so one day, he could teach her to fight.

He excuses himself and it's only when he reaches the bathroom that the first sob escapes his lips.

xxxxxx

Emma wakes the next morning to find a package on the kitchen table, wrapped rudimentarily in the comics section of the newspaper. A note is attached, but in typical Emma fashion, she heads straight for the gift first.

Tearing it open, a piece of wood falls into her hand, its seams glued together with all the care and precision of an expert surgeon.

She traces the sword's contours, breath hitching every time she gets to a part he's painstakingly pieced together. And only after a full minute of staring does she unfold the note accompanying it.

_For Henry._

xxxxxx

The air is bitter for early fall and David wraps his jacket tighter around his torso, sipping coffee from the tumbler as he makes his way down to the docks.

He spots the motorcycle before its owner, but sure enough, he eventually sees August sitting on the bench opposite the cannary, tapping out a rhythm with his boots on the cold, cement ground.

"Got your note," David says as he approaches, holding up the piece of paper he found tucked into that morning's newspaper. "Risky business, assuming Emma wouldn't pick it up first."

August barks out a laugh. "Since when has Emma been able to string together a coherent sentence first thing in the morning, let alone open the paper and take in the headlines."

David cocks his head, conceding that the kid has a fair point, yet his eyes narrow and his shoulders tense. "And how do you know Emma's not a morning person?"

"Could it be the oh-so-cheerful greeting I used to get at Granny's at 6:45am?"

David stares at him for a moment more, hoping the ferocity of his gaze is enough of a threat, but it's true, Emma has never been her most charming before at least ten in the morning.

"So what is it?" David asks, cutting right to the chase. A leaden weight has been in his gut ever since he got August's message (_Must talk. Docks. 8:15._ _– A) _and frankly he'd just like to get this over with.

But the pained look that passes across August's face tells David he's not going like whatever the boy has in store for him.

"I was in the diner yesterday when you were there with Mary Margaret."

David waits, expecting more, but nothing comes. "So?"

"Regina was there."

Oh.

"She saw you."

Damn. David hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I just went there for coffee, I'll be more careful next time – "

"Your highness, there can't be a next time."

And suddenly, everything stops: the seagulls, the wind, the coffee mug tumbling from his hand. Everything stops and it's so so silent.

"Excuse me?"

"You can't see her. Mary Margaret – you can't see her anymore." August looks like the words are bile in his mouth but David can't care about that when his heart has plummeted to his feet. When the man – the _boy_ – in front of him is telling him he cannot see the woman who is the very breath in his lungs.

"Your highness – "

"Don't. Don't patronize me."

"I'm not!"

He's pacing like a prizefighter and he'd like nothing more than to put a hole in the concrete wall behind them.

"If Regina thinks you're close to becoming anything remotely like what you were before, she will do something to separate you."

"Then I'll take my chances!" he snarls.

"With what?!" August yells. "What do you have to bargain with? Emma's life? Henry's?"

"_Don't._"

"David, she will kill you! Don't act like she hasn't tried to before!"

And that's what makes him stop wearing a hole in the asphalt – not a fear for his own life, but the terrifying thought of what would happen to Emma and Henry if he were to die.

August must sense his dilemma because his tone softens. "This isn't for forever. Just until we make Emma believe."

David scoffs, but it comes out more strangled than sarcastic. "The curse can't break until she's 28."

"The _curse_ can't break. That doesn't mean we can't make Emma see who you truly are." The boy hesitates before placing a hand on David's shoulder and both parties seem surprised when he doesn't shrug it off.

"We need time. You staying away from Mary Margaret will give us just a bit more."

David nods and swallows hard. "You realize what you're asking of me."

"Yes, sir."

"You're asking me to break my wife's heart. And in turn, my own."

"I know, sir."

David shakes his head. "You don't know – "

"Yes I do – "

"No you don't!" David breaks, the task before him too daunting for even the bravest of men. "You won't even tell me who you are! You won't – "

"I'm sorry!" is August's anguished reply and the response pulls David up short.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He's shaking his head, no longer the voice of reason as he harshly runs his fingers through his hair. "I was supposed to protect her and I failed. I made a promise and I broke it."

David is feeling many things, most of which he can't decipher, yet he still manages to ask, "What are you talking about?"

"I wasn't selfless, brave, and true," August quietly confides.

It takes a moment, then two, for the thoughts running through his head to form some sort of coherence. But when they do, his heart constricts. Painfully.

"Pinocchio?" David whispers.

August nods.

"But how…" he begins, knowing every word brings him closer to answer he doesn't want to know. "… How are you here?"


	23. Decisions

**This is for all of you, for bearing with the craziness that is my life at the moment. **

_Decisions_

"_The wardrobe took two."_

Four words he's dreaded saying ever since he learned the price paid for them. The sacrifice unwillingly, unknowingly, made.

He expects a punch but it never comes. He expects yelling and screaming and swearing, but they are absent as well.

David is staring at him like he can't quite believe what he's just heard, that a lifetime of hurts could have been rectified had August's father not trusted him with a task he neglected to carry out.

There aren't enough apologies in the world to even begin to make up for what they've all lost, and he knows this so he wisely shuts his mouth.

He wants pain. He wants bruises. He wants physical, aching proof that he abandoned the one person he swore to protect.

But David doesn't give it to him. He turns and walks away, humming with an anger the likes of which August will never know.

And perhaps it's the silence that hurts most of all. The wordless judgment that cuts right to the marrow, denying August even the satisfaction of being punished for his crime.

xxxxxx

_She could have gone. She could have gone. She could have gone._

Twenty-eight years apart from his wife would not be nearly as painful as this one simple truth.

Snow could have gone with their daughter.

He vaguely registers the rain soaking his clothes and chilling his skin. It's a welcome development, though – camouflage for the tears on his face. And as he stalks away from the marina and the boy he left there, it takes every ounce of self control in his body not to turn around, walk back, and deck the apologetic look clean off his face.

His feet are carrying him towards a destination he's not really concerned about; blocks pass without a care for the sign or the direction as he inhales harshly and deeply in an attempt to force air into his ragged lungs. No words or deeds could have prepared him for what he's now attempting to process and as a result, he feels a numbness the likes of which he hasn't felt since the life seeped out of the wound in his side.

In any other time or place he knows where he would head. He would head straight into Snow's arms so she could envelop him in her enduring hope, lighting him with the incandescent spark he fell in love with as she hung in that stupid net. But August's words stay with him, haunting his every step because as much as he would like to deny everything that's happened over the past few minutes, the leaden feeling in his gut tells him that the boy with the broken promise has a point.

_"If Regina thinks you're close to becoming anything remotely like what you were before, she will do something to separate you."_

He wants his wife. He _needs _his wife, because no one person can bear this burden alone, but his feet aren't carrying him towards her. His mind is ruling over his heart (for once) and taking him away from her apartment, away from her embrace, away from the comfort her mere presence always provides.

He endangers his wife – the woman he _swore _to protect – by being with her; an action he physically cannot deny himself. There are no winners here.

And by the time he reaches Graham's door, his clothes are stuck to his body, his teeth are chattering and his throat is aching with the tears he's attempting to keep at bay.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Graham asks before the door is even fully open. But David can only shake his head as he brushes past his friend into the apartment.

It's to Graham's credit that he doesn't say anything else, as if he senses just how bad the situation is. He merely helps David peel the dripping coat from his body and wordlessly disappears into the bathroom to hang up the jacket and toss him a towel.

David buries his face in the cotton, wishing he could just hide away from the world. But then Graham's hand is on his back, pulling him reluctantly to the present. Yet the sheriff waits for David, just as the Huntsman waits for his kill. Silently. Patiently. Almost reverently.

"I can't tell you what's wrong," David finally says, voice devoid of emotion.

"I don't need to know," is the reply and David sways under the relief those five words provide, allowing himself to be led to the kitchen and dropped into a chair. "Just tell me: are Emma and Henry okay?"

David nods. "They're okay."

"Good." Graham exhales deeply, his worry for mother and child palpable, before turning and rifling around in a cabinet. A tumbler of whiskey is pushed under David's nose and, despite the fact that he was drinking coffee not fifteen minutes ago, he downs it in one, relishing the burn at the back of his throat.

The tick of the clock's second hand marks the minutes passed, and only upon finishing his second shot of whiskey does David notice that Graham's sitting there in his pajamas, looking at him with concerned, yet bleary eyes.

"I woke you up."

"I was awake."

"I'm supposed to be at the station."

"I'll get dressed and go in a minute."

David closes his eyes and drops his head in his hands at Graham's offer. The man just worked the night shift and yet he's willing to head to the station now in his deputy's place. And in that moment, David sees the man who fired an arrow just over his left shoulder into the guard at his back. The man who cut his bindings and kept his sword. The man who whispered, _"Don't let my sacrifice be in vain,"_ before selflessly urging David to freedom.

He trusted him to find Snow – to make good on his promise – so it's only fair that David offer the same courtesy.

"I don't think I can see Mary Margaret anymore." Voicing the words aloud makes them true; gives them weight. Hammers them into concrete: a declaration that cannot be unsaid, and the effort needed makes David bow his head.

"What? Why?" Graham sounds so flabbergasted that David almost has to bite back a smile. Almost.

"I can't..." he groans and runs his hands over his face, cursing his inability to speak freely. "I can't explain. You wouldn't believe me."

Graham leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. "Try me."

"I can't tell you," David whispers and he so desperately wishes he could. He needs to confide in someone and his usual confidant is the current source of all his trouble. At the moment, he just needs his friend. At the moment, he needs his _best_ friend. "It's – it's for her own…"

"Good," Graham supplies, and David loves him a bit in that moment. "You'd always do whatever was best for her." He says it with the Huntsman's conviction and David manages a smile as Graham squeezes his shoulder.

"She'll get hurt if I don't."

And at that, Graham's features darken. "Who will hurt her?"

David shakes his head. "I can't – "

"David, if she's in trouble, you have to tell me."

"She's not in trouble. Not now. Not... not after I do what I have to do."

Graham's features soften, but he says nothing. Silently waiting to see if David will crack and spill whatever is behind this decidedly ridiculously plan of action. But he has his reasons, and if the Huntsman were sitting across from him instead of the sheriff, he'd be on his side.

"Go home, David," he finally murmurs.

"I can't. I can't let Emma see me like this."

"Then stay here and sleep." He pushes the bottle of whiskey in David's direction. "Emma already thinks you're at the station. Take a hot shower and pass out on my couch for a couple of hours instead."

David raises an eyebrow and Graham smiles.

"I won't tell." But the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and immediately, David is no longer in Graham's kitchen, but rather in a stone corridor, staring at his savior as he tells him to run.

"_I gave up my heart so that the Queen would spare Snow's."_

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the words come back to him; the words that made his blood run cold as his eyes flicked to the man's leather doublet as if searching for a hole – seeking some sort of physical proof that his body lacked a steady beat.

David should wonder if the same holds true from the Enchanted Forest to Storybrooke, Maine. If a heart once taken is gone forever.

But the heart he's focused on at the moment is not Graham's, but Snow's.

Because he knows, by nightfall, he will have to break it.

xxxxxx

It's difficult, hiding the truth of the matter. Gold is not exactly famous for his discretion and knowing he cracked the Queen's curse for the second time has him seconds away from shouting from the rooftops, but he's actually being cautious for once. Actually listening to that little voice in the back of his mind that he normally regards as a minor nuisance.

He must bide his time, as he knows Charming will if and when he wakes up. He's been watching him closely, like a door you're waiting a loved one to return through: calculatingly, impatiently. And in his musings, he's noticed something. Since the child was born, David Nolan has been standing taller. His eyes have been seeing more. His hands have been reaching for the non-existent sword at his side. But nothing gives him away like the way he looks at Emma. It's the way Gold would look at Bae, if fortunate enough to clap eyes on him once more.

David Nolan is no longer just a deputy. He is a prince remembered. A king dethroned. A father enraged.

Yes, Charming might be a good ally to have. One day.

Gold's eyes narrow as he turns the corner and spots Emma securing Henry's carrier into a stroller just up ahead. Charming became a father and grandfather all in one day. Perhaps he should send flowers or something.

"Ah, Miss Swan. How are you today?"

She jolts and glances at him a little uneasily as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, stepping perhaps unconsciously (and perhaps not) between him and the stroller.

"Uh, fine, Mr. Gold. And yourself?"

"Can't complain. Is this the tyke?"

"This is Henry," she says and he can hear the warmth in her voice as she allows him to peek inside. He looks just like Charming with a dash of Emma thrown in. And something else… something eerily familiar.

"Beautiful," he responds, pushing the thought from his mind.

"Yeah, I think I'll keep him."

The comment throws him and he chuckles. He always did like that about Emma Swan. Her spunk. He saw it when she was five and he sees it now. It's anyone's guess which parent she inherited that particular trait from.

If there's a war (and there will be), he wouldn't mind having the Charming family on his side. His allegiances are fickle like that. But as he stares at the baby in front of him, whose eyes he's seen before, he experiences something he hasn't allowed himself to feel in a very, very long time: genuine fondness.

"Funny."

"What is?" she asks and he nods towards the child.

"He looks like Mr. Nolan." He tips his cane, gracing her with his telltale grin. "But that can't be, now can it."

And he takes great delight in Emma's shocked face as he saunters off down the street.

xxxxxx

Graham chuckles as he sits behind the desk and places his extra large coffee down in front of him. David has cleaned. Well. Not so much cleaned as stacked things into relatively organized piles. Still. The fact that he can see the desk's surface at all is a vast improvement.

He gingerly sits, wishing fate had granted him just a few more hours of sleep, but whatever's going on with David, well. It certainly takes precedence. Graham can't even count how many times his deputy has covered for him – both in life and in the line of duty – so a sleep-deprived morning is well worth it.

He takes a sip of his coffee and winces at its strength, but right now it's the only thing keeping him upright until David comes to relieve him, so he takes another gulp and hopes that his deputy doesn't eat all of his Honey Nut Cheerios upon waking.

"What are you doing on duty? I thought it was David's shift."

Graham glances up to find Emma in the doorway, lugging Henry's carrier, and he's so distracted by the adorably exasperated look on her face that it takes him a moment before he splutters, "Uh. Yeah. He… he had to take care of something. I said I'd cover."

Her eyes narrow and he swallows. "You're lying."

Damn. "How do you do that?" Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he should be coming up with a better fabrication, but really, he's just too impressed with her ability to see right through him.

"It's a gift," she shrugs, stepping into the office and placing Henry's carrier down on the floor. It's all the invitation Graham needs to come around and crouch down in the front of the baby, pulling a funny face even though the kid looks half-asleep. "So where is he?" Emma asks and he wishes his charming interaction with her son would make her forget about David, but obviously he's out of luck. How does he describe something he doesn't quite understand himself?

"I was telling the truth. He had to take care of something." Of himself, more like.

She seems placated for the moment and drops the diaper bag on the floor next to the desk.

"What brings you here?"

"David forgot his lunch. I was dropping it off," she replies, holding up a paper bag. "PB&J…" she whispers tantalizingly, swinging it back and forth.

"Strawberry jam?"

"Of course."

He takes the bag and sits cross-legged, dumping its contents into his lap, even though he had a bowl of cereal not an hour ago.

"Graham?" And it's her tone that has him looking up from the deliciously gooey sandwich in his hands and the adorable baby eyeing it curiously. It's her tone that sounds concerned, nervous even – so different from her buoyant attitude just a moment ago.

"Yeah?" He knows she's going to ask about David. Who else (besides Henry) could inspire that kind of worry in her? He hopes one day _he _might, but… that's a musing for a different time involving a lot of alcohol.

"Where is he?" She's not being forceful, but her hard features demand a response. Graham sighs and pushes himself up from the floor, tossing the sandwich on his desk.

"He's at my place."

"And why is he at your place? I just saw him an hour ago, what happened?"

Graham shrugs. "I dunno. All I know is that he showed up on my doorstep soaking wet and upset. I gave him some whiskey and put him to bed."

"You gave him whiskey?! It's barely 10am!" And of course, that's what she focuses on.

"Look, I don't know what happened between him leaving you and coming to me, but something did. Something…" He doesn't want to bring up Mary Margaret – not yet. It'll only worry Emma further and if her wide eyes and tense shoulders are anything to go by, her anxiety level is high enough. "But something obviously did."

"I have to go to him," she says, already gathering up the diaper bag, but he grabs her arm and swings her gently around.

"Nope, nope. Don't do that."

"But – "

"Emma, he just needs a bit of time." He's trying to keep his tone light, but it comes out soft, like a caress, and immediately he tenses at the slip. He tenses even more when her determined façade fades and she leans into his side.

"He's saved me so many times. I just – I want to return the favor. Just once."

"He doesn't need saving, darlin'." He sits her down in the chair across from his desk and crouches down, gently rocking Henry's carrier with a hand. "David can take care of himself."

_A cell. A prisoner. A name._

"_Snow! What have you done to her?! What have you done?!"_

_A voice echoing off the stone walls, each iteration more desperate than the last. _

"Did you just say 'snow?"

"Uh…" He searches for words, for memories that won't come. Her charmingly confused expression is one he's seen before, focused on him from another's face. Black hair. Red lips. Sly smile. "I mean – "

Actually... he's not quite sure what he means.

xxxxxx

Gold leans against the side of the brick building as the man on the motorcycle tucks his helmet under his arm and dismounts, striding up to Granny's with his head bowed.

The rain drips down his face, but he doesn't mind. Not when the identity of the town's new stranger is so much more intriguing.

And it's a shame that he's so enraptured, because he never notices the man watching him watch the leather-clad kid. He never notices the picture the man takes of the Gold and then the boy, just before he disappears into the diner.

And because Gold doesn't notice, he'll never realize how many cooks Storybrooke's kitchen actually has. And he should know. He needs to know.

Because while the Evil Queen's quarrel might not be directly with Prince Charming, King George's certainly is.

xxxxxx

Regina runs the pad of her finger down the length of his torso, tracing the grooves of his skin and watching his muscles flex beneath her touch.

"You were late," she purrs and he tenses – but not because of anything she's doing with her fingers.

"Yeah, David and I switched shifts."

"Oh? Why?" She keeps her tone light – curious – yet she has a feeling he's getting wise to her games.

"He had some errands to run."

Bastard. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, nipping at the skin to hide the roll of her eyes. He's been off since he showed up on her front step, pushing her up against the nearest wall and slamming the door shut with a distracted, yet well-aimed kick. Not that she was complaining. Still. His kisses were desperate and his hands searching. Searching for answers he thought she couldn't provide.

Oh, if only he knew.

"How is the little family?"

"Fine."

That's the other thing. His answers have become more and more monosyllabic since Emma Swan came to town. She rests her cheek on his chest and glances at the dresser across the room and the drawer (second from the top) that holds his heart.

As much as she hates Emma Swan and all that she stands for, she doesn't want to lose this. It's not ideal, but it's more than she ever had in the Enchanted Forest. Well, since Daniel. It's companionship (though coerced), respect (though harshly earned), and power (though of the political variety). It'll do. And as much as she would like to snuff the Charming family out like a candle, she doesn't quite want to disrupt what leverage she has.

As long as things remain the way they are, Regina doesn't have to act.

"Stay for dinner?" she murmurs, more softly than she thinks he's ever heard from her.

"Okay," Graham replies and she tries not to focus on the fact that the only reason he said yes is because it's Wednesday. It's not Game Night or Spaghetti Night or any of the other ridiculously moronic themed evenings they've managed to come up with.

Yes, things can stay as they are. She'll just have to keep a more watchful eye on the proceedings.

It's not perfect – it's not her happy ending – but then again, she wasn't holding out much hope for it anyway.

xxxxxx

David readjusts the small cooler in his hand as he raps his knuckles against the door, lips smacking against the rather disgusting combination of whiskey and Honey Nut Cheerios.

"Just a sec," he hears through the wood and then the door swings back, revealing August whose mouth hangs open for a brief second before David's fist connects with his jaw.

The boy goes tumbling backwards, landing on the bench at the foot of the bed, before falling to the floor.

"Jesus!" he groans, holding his face as David flexes his fingers.

"You were right."

August raises an eyebrow and massages his cheek, a look of utter incredulity passing across his face. "Excuse me?"

David takes a step in and closes the door, palm lingering against the wood. "You were right. She'll separate us if we…" he gesture uselessly between himself and an absent Snow. "She'll do something. I know that now… But you still left my daughter. Hence the…" he points to August's rapidly swelling cheek.

"Mean right hook you have there, sir."

"I know," David replies, reaching into the small cooler at his side and pulling out a bag of frozen peas. "Here."

August deftly catches it, placing the makeshift ice pack on his face with a groan. David takes a moment to glance around at the unmade bed and half-empty suitcase that take up the majority of Granny's small room. He's having trouble reconciling the small redheaded boy with the man standing before him. The boy he taught how to fight with the man who looks as if he's seen his fair share of them. The boy who needed a lift just to get on his pony with the man whose motorcycle keys are lying on the bedside table.

"You were right, too," August eventually murmurs. "I didn't know what I was asking of you."

David nods. "And you won't. Not until you love someone like I love her."

August lowers the peas and looks at him with all sincerity as he says, "I don't think I could love anyone the way you love her."

And perhaps he's right. When he feels her absence as acutely as he would a missing limb, sometimes he truly wonders if what they have is lightning in a bottle.

"How long have you been following her?"

"Emma?" August asks and David nods. "I found her about five months before she found you."

"Before her legal trouble."

"She told you about that."

"Not all of it." David remembers that night, with the movie credits rolling and the popcorn long gone, when she leaned over and whispered, _"I want to tell you what I did." _

And he replied, _"I don't care." _

And that was it. He didn't need to know and that was what she needed to hear.

David asks, "Where were you the rest of her life?" just as August says, "I met Henry's father."

Both pull up short and August smiles a humorless grin. "He asked me that, too."

"And in these five months, have you come up with an answer?"

"Are you going to punch me again?"

"Possibly." The boy blanches, but David smirks to show he's only partially joking. "Come on, kid. Let's go for a walk."

August eyes him like 'going for a walk' is code for 'I'm going to find a nice, quiet place to bury your body,' and David rolls his eyes, before tossing the boy's leather jacket at him.

"Put it on. It's raining."

August does as he's told and trudges down the stairs obediently after David. It's not until they're outside in the fog that he finally utters a sound.

"I was seven."

David knows more is coming and so he wisely remains silent, yet those three words alone would have been excuse enough. A boy tasked with a job even adults would flounder at. He remembers being seven. He remembers running after sheep when he accidentally left the paddock open. He remembers trying and failing at so many things.

"We were going to run away from the home. I wanted to take Emma with me, but I couldn't."

"So you left." He says it without judgment, yet August seems to crumple before him like a sandcastle.

"I left."

They continue walking but out of the corner of his eye, David can see that August is shaking. So without fanfare, fuss, or even forgiveness really, he reaches over and clasps the kid's shoulder, squeezing hard.

"You were seven."

August sniffs and shakes his head. "I was raised better."

"Your father was doing what was best for you."

"I wasn't talking about my father."

And that's what stops David in the middle of the road. In the middle of the path that's unconsciously leading him towards Mary Margaret's apartment. August squares his shoulders and meets his eyes for the first time since David decked him in the face.

"She was _your_ daughter. You were my hero. Seven or not, I was raised better."

Oh.

"I've lived a life of selfishness, cowardice and dishonesty. And only I can cure that. Not magic. Not science. Just me."

August stands there for a moment, as if making sure David got the message, before continuing down the street, slowing slightly for David to catch up. "When I finally got my feet under me, I began looking for her. Took me two years before I tracked her down to Phoenix. Met Neal there – "

"Ah – " David interrupts, holding up his hand. "I'd rather hear about Neal from Emma, if it's all the same to you."

August nods and kicks a wayward rock. "He left me a car and a wad of cash to give to her. I used the money to get her a decent lawyer. Saved her some jail time, at least. Then she came here."

David nods, unable to even express his gratitude.

"Does anyone else know? I mean, who they truly are."

"Jefferson. Jefferson knows."

"Right," David murmurs, two sets of memories slamming into him. "The mobile."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Ah, Mr. Nolan," a voice says up ahead – a voice as vivid in his nightmares as it is in his waking hours.

"Madam Mayor," he greets as August tenses next to him – still the boy in front of the Evil Queen – and David steps discretely in between them. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and eyes him up and down from under her large, deep purple umbrella. "Who's your friend?"

"Uh - "

"August W. Booth," the kid says, stepping forward and holding out his hand, which she takes with barely concealed disdain. "I'm a writer, and the deputy was kind enough to show me around."

"Well, Mr. Nolan, I didn't realize that 'tour guide' fell under your list of tasks."

"All part of the civic duty, ma'am," he says with a tight, overly friendly smile.

Her narrowed gaze pierces through him, as if she can see the lies he never knew he had to conceal. The prince hiding behind the deputy. The father hiding behind the guardian. He's feeling such a heady cocktail of anger and fear that he has to remind himself of where he is and whom he's with before he does something he truly regrets.

Regina continues to study his features and he forcibly relaxes his shoulders, telling himself not to reach for the sword that is no longer at his side.

"Well, I hope you find your stay enjoyable, Mr. Booth."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Deputy," she nods.

"Madam Mayor," he returns, holding his breath until she's out of earshot before letting it out in a rush.

August opens his mouth to speak, but David grabs his arm hard and mutters a "Not yet," through clenched teeth. It's only when they turn the corner that he releases his hold on the boy.

"Jesus, you'd think electricity would have mellowed her out by now."

It's funny, but David can't even muster a smile. Not when he's staring at the homemade birdhouse hanging from the tree in the yard two houses down.

August is quiet for a moment, before David hears the low murmur than nearly brings him to his knees: "She lives there, doesn't she."

It's not a question. August seems to know that only Snow could inspire the kind of desperate desolation David's feeling at the moment. He has to do this now. He has to end this now. His resolve is weakening with every moment he spends in sight of that damn birdhouse and he's convinced that one more minute without her either safely broken hearted or dangerously in his arms will utterly and completely break him.

"I don't want you to be here for this."

"Yes, sir."

"But don't – don't go far."

"Yes, sir," August replies a little more quietly.

Two hundred feet. That's all that probably stands between him and her front door. He tries to remember his training. Tries to muster his courage. Surely this counts as going into battle: his mind's campaign for reason versus his heart's fight for love. The distance seems to pass in a matter of moments, and then he's standing at the door, hand poised to meet what will most assuredly be the fiercest foe he's ever had to face:

Himself.


	24. Confrontations

_Confrontations_

She knows it's been raining without even looking outside. She can tell by the way the tires stick to the pavement as they slowly meander down her quiet street.

Saturdays don't have the same sense of peace that they once did. The book and cup of tea she usually occupies herself with don't hold sway over her mind anymore. Not since they came into her life. Not since _he _crashed through that diner door.

David. The name alone seems to be accompanied by a heightened heart rate and lessened lung capacity. And if just the name is enough to make her weak in the knees, then she's done for when the man himself is anywhere within her reach.

Now her Saturdays are spent staring out the window, wondering what he's doing – as she's wont to do whenever she's parted from him. She briefly wonders if this is a healthy way to pass the time and then promptly decides that she doesn't care either way. Because if there's even a remote chance that he's doing the same thing regarding her, then she'll consider it time well spent. Her mind is filled with _David David David_ and her fingers itch to grab onto his soft, flannel shirt. To tug him closer until his nose is mere centimeters from hers. To return the shy, yet sly smile he always gives her right before his lips brush her skin.

Yes, Saturdays have lost their appeal. And she's sure the same holds true for every other day of the week as well.

The knock on the door, though, is a welcome distraction from her distraction. The book in her lap has lain neglected for at least the last thirty minutes and her tea has long since gone cold; too immersed has she been in watching the raindrops slide down her windowpane.

There are only three people it could really be, but only one knocks with that particular "please-open-the-door-I-need-to-see-you-now" rap.

Sure enough, she swings it back and there he is, shivering on her doorstep as water drips from his hair.

"Hi," she breathes, but that's all the greeting she gets out before she notices that something is very, very wrong.

David hasn't met her eyes since he first clapped them on her and promptly darted them away. That's not like him.

"David?"

His brow creases, as if her voice alone causes him physical pain and he shakes his head, though what he's disagreeing with, she's not quite sure.

"Come in," she beckons, not taking 'no' for an answer as she grabs his sleeve and tugs him through the entryway. She takes a moment to realize she's still in her pajama pants, but her concerns about her current fashion choice are nothing compared to her concern over him.

He stands there, dripping on the hardwood floor, staring at his hands as if unable to believe they're actually attached to his body.

"David, you're scaring me."

At that, he raises his head and finally meets her gaze – and the love and pain shining from it nearly levels her.

"Is it Emma or Henry?"

He shakes his head, smiling slightly, and she knows she's not the first person to ask that question.

"They're fine," he replies thickly, and a weight is lifted from her chest. But that still doesn't explain why he's here, looking like the cares of the world rest on his shoulders.

She won't ask. She'll wait until he's ready to tell her, for why else would he have come to her door? So instead, she takes his hand and pushes him down on a chair at the table, before lighting the stove under the teapot and retreating to the bathroom to grab a towel.

The overhead light is harsh compared to the soft, almost melancholy glow the cloudy day has been casting on the rest of the apartment. It throws her worried features into sharp relief and she takes a moment to stare at herself in the mirror. She seems to have aged in the last few minutes, for whatever hurts he has are inflicted on her as well. With a final glance, she flicks the light off and hugs the towel close to her chest as she makes her way back into the living room.

He's still sitting in the exact same position as when she left him: slumped forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his palms. She stops for a moment to watch him – watch the bend in his back and the firm press of his fingertips into his temple. The tension in his shoulders and the breath that causes his chest to rise and fall.

She kneels down in front of him, gently pulling his hands away from his face to run the towel across his forehead, down his cheek and neck, under his jaw and back up the other side.

"Where'd you get that?" he whispers and she pauses, the cloth resting in the hollow of his throat.

"Hm? What?"

"That." He holds her left wrist and pulls her hand away, inspecting the ring on her third finger. "Do you remember?"

She frowns because he's asking it in a way that suggests _he_ knows. That he knows where and how that ring ended up on her finger.

"Um, I got it at... uh... actually, I'm not sure."

His head drops forward as if that was the answer he feared. And she's not sure what makes her ask the question, but the words are leaving her mouth on a hushed whisper before she can bite them back.

"Do _you_ know where I got it?"

He drags his eyes up to meet hers and slowly nods his head.

"I do," he says firmly. Purposefully.

"_And do you, Snow White, taking this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"_

"_I do."_

She shakes her head and stares at the ring once more, it's green gem glinting in the pale afternoon light. There's something she can't explain – some tie between the piece of jewelry on her finger and the man sitting in front of her. Like an imprint or the ghost of a memory.

"Where did I get it?" she breathes just as he blurts out, "I can't do this."

"Do what?" she asks, even as her stomach drops.

"This," he whispers, gently removing her palm from his cheek.

_No. No No No._

He stands abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he paces the length of her living room carpet, but all she can focus on are the patterns sewn into the rug – the colors blurring as tears sting her eyes.

"David..."

"I lied," he says, stopping in the middle of the room and looking at her with renewed determination. "I can't do this with you."

But no. No, because he said, _"That spot has always been yours. For longer than you realize." _He _said_ that and he meant it. She knows he meant it.

"This isn't… this isn't you," she starts, searching, grasping for some level of understanding. "David, what happened? What aren't you telling me?"

"Mary Margaret – "

"David – "

"This isn't working – "

"You said the spot was mine – "

"Well there isn't room!" he shouts and his voice echoes off the exposed brick and carefully chosen decor. He's breathing harshly and her ears are ringing, but the only sound she can focus on is the ferocious beat of her heart. "There isn't room for you, Mary Margaret," he finishes quietly and she flinches as if dodging a physical blow.

The words are cruel and David's not cruel. Something else is going on. Something – something's not right.

"David – "

"I have to go," he interrupts, never letting her get out more than just his name. Perhaps he can't. Perhaps if she spoke more, he'd crack and stay. Will her voice hold him? Could her voice stay his hand on the knob and make him tell all that he's not saying?

But it doesn't.

She gets out, "David, don't do this," but the door closes behind him, leaving her in an empty apartment, with nothing but a forgotten book and cold tea for company.

xxxxxx

August leans against a column under the eave of a neighboring house, hugging himself tightly against the damp that hovers in the air.

David's been in there a while – longer than August expected – and so he waits, because he promised he would. He promised he wouldn't go far as Prince Charming breaks Snow White's heart. And August refuses to renege on any more promises.

It takes three more minutes before the door to her apartment building bangs open and David doesn't so much stride as stumble out. August is jogging over a moment later, reaching a steadying hand out and gripping the man's shoulder as he sags against the wall, gasping for air.

August doesn't dare ask him what happened. The man falling apart in front of him is answer enough.

David closes his eyes, and August pretends not to see the tears tracking down the other man's face. He's never known hurt like this. He probably won't ever, but that doesn't stop him from attempting to empathize as much as his life experience will allow.

David blinks, gaze coming to focus on the boy in front of him, as if just now realizing he's not in fact alone. August offers a tight smile, gripping the other man's shoulder harder and tugging him gently away from Mary Margaret's apartment and the piece of himself he left there.

There are many things about this that unsettle August, but none more so than David's eyes.

They're older, darker, dimmer.

Bearing the weight of the decades he should have aged with his wife and daughter by his side.

xxxxxx

Well, this is an interesting twist, Regina thinks as she watches Charming stagger away from Snow's apartment. Perhaps no intervention is needed.

It would certainly save her some time and aggravation. Not to mention what could only be a less than pleasant interaction with Emma Swan to extract the magic needed to make things neat and tidy once more.

No, perhaps Snow and Charming can bungle things all on their own this time. And the prospect is looking better and better as Mary Margaret emerges minutes later, and even from this distance, Regina can make out her swollen, tear filled eyes. She watches for a moment as Snow White, her stepdaughter, the one person she once loved and now loathes heads in the opposite direction.

Well. She didn't think Charming had it in him. But then again, this isn't Charming – this is David Nolan. And though she rather sarcastically derived "Nolan" from "noble," she has to admit that the deputy has more of the prince in him than she would have liked. Still. He's not beyond screwing up his love life she's happy to see.

But god help her if the prince wakes up. Even now, with the safety of a curse on her side, she knows that his wrath will be unlike anything she's ever faced.

xxxxxx

Emma is seething.

No, she's pretty sure she surpassed seething roughly seven minutes ago, when she ran into Mary Margaret on the street and the woman could barely get two words out. Granted, the words happened to be "David" and "said" which was all Emma needed to hear to know that David was number one on her list of people whose asses she needed to kick.

She marches up the porch steps and shoves the front door open, it's subsequent _bang _against the wall causing Henry to whimper in the carrier she holds.

She's about to yell David's name, but it's not necessary. She finds him sitting on the couch in the living room, head dropped into his hands. The sight gives her pause (for just a moment) because he looks so utterly devastated. But then she remembers Mary Margaret's tear-stained face and her anger spikes once more.

"What the hell did you do?"

"You wouldn't understand," is his croaked reply, but at least he knows what has her so worked up.

"You're goddamn right I wouldn't understand! I _don't_ understand!" She places Henry's carrier on the ground, closing her eyes as he wails in response to the noise. "What the hell did you do?"

He stands and strides purposefully into the kitchen and she follows hot on his heels.

"She was a wreck – in tears. Hell, she could barely speak!"

He flinches, so she continues, hoping to chip away at whatever emotional armor he's attempted to construct.

"David," she pleads, grabbing his arm, "this is Mary Margaret we're talking about here!"

"I know that." He tears off his soaked jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a dull thud, refusing to face her.

"Do you? Because last week, I was convinced I was gonna be helping you go ring shopping sometime in the not-too-distant future and now… well."

He's peeled off his wet shirt and is rooting around the pile of clean laundry for a dry replacement, but she's getting tired of staring at his back and of his monotone responses. He loves her. She _knows _he does so whatever's going on, whatever this is, is not the be all and the end all. Something else is happening here.

"David, talk to me."

"You wouldn't understand," he mutters.

"Stop saying that! I'm not a child!"

"You are a child!" he yells, rounding on her with wide pained eyes. "You cannot even _begin _to understand what I'm feeling at the moment. What I've _been _feeling. You can't – " he bows his head, letting the dry t-shirt hang limply at his side. "You can't know."

It's their first fight. Their first fight in all the time they've known each other, but the anger has seeped out of her like air from a balloon as she gets a good look at him – as she finally sees what he's been hiding beneath the shirts he wears.

"David," she whispers, unconsciously taking a step forward, eyes glued to the marks on his body. The familiar seams of surgical incisions that crisscross their way across his skin, branding him.

"Emma."

She must look frightened because his voice has gone soft; his features are still pained, yet they exude reassurance. He holds a hand out, but she bypasses it to gently place her palm on his chest, tracing the most vicious-looking scar down the length of his ribcage.

"What happened?"

"Emma." He takes her face in his palms and gently guides her eyes up to his, and she's floored by love she finds there. "There are things in this world that you're just gonna have to take on faith."

But no, because scars are indicative of wounds, and the wounds on his torso are enough to kill a man. She shakes her head because the thought of him being in pain, of him nearly _dying, _is unbearable.

"How did you get these?" She needs an answer. She has to know the horrors he's capable of surviving.

"I can't tell you exactly. Not yet." He smiles sadly and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Just like I can't tell you what's going on between Mary Margaret and myself."

"This – this looks like a, a knife wound." She traces the long gash again and he inhales sharply.

"Sword, actually."

Her head snaps up so quickly, she's pretty sure she gets whiplash. "Sword?"

He smiles a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Like I said, there are many things you'll just have to take on faith."

She opens her mouth to argue, because how on _earth _did he get stabbed with a _sword, _but he places a finger to her lips before she can voice the question.

"In due time, you'll know. You know every boring fact behind every scar here. But now, now I need you to trust me."

"I've always trusted you," she whispers and he smiles as he places a kiss on her forehead, before pulling away and tugging the dry shirt on.

"I'm so glad." His hands slide down her arms and squeeze them tight. "And you're right, I would have taken you ring shopping with me." He tries to inject some lightness into it, but his voice catches on the last word.

"I would've given you horrible advice," she replies as a tear slides down her cheek. She cries for David and the wounds he bears – both healed and not. For Mary Margaret, who doesn't know why her heart is breaking, and for herself because this is just further proof that being good and loving doesn't always guarantee a happy ending.

And just when she's about to ask if he still holds out hope for that; if even after all of the scars and tears and shouts, he still believes in all the crap that Mary Margaret's fairytale book touts, the woman herself comes flying through the front door.

"Mary Margaret?" David breathes a little disbelievingly, and Emma thinks that, yes, he's right to be questioning whether or not the woman in front of him is merely a vision.

Her hair is wet, her eyes are wild and her gaze is fierce as she says, "We need to talk" in a tone that brooks no argument.

xxxxxx

She's breathing harshly and her heart is hammering in her chest, still a little incredulous that she, Mary Margaret Blanchard, just practically kicked down a door.

"Emma, do you mind giving us a minute?"

The girl's eyes are wide as she stares at the older woman and Mary Margaret can only imagine what a sight she must be. It's still raining and she can feel her clothes sticking to her chilled body. Her eyes still sting from the tears she shed and her voice is hoarse from the sobs that rubbed her throat raw.

Now, though – now she only has eyes for him.

He's staring at her in a way that suggests he's physically incapable of looking elsewhere. His gaze is pained, but also… hopeful? Yes, hopeful. And it's that spark that spurs her on.

"Please," she says again and Emma throws a quick look back to David, who finally seems to come to himself and gives a little nod. The girl offers her a tight smile and a squeeze to the arm as she passes, and Mary Margaret waits until she grabs Henry and ascends the stairs before meeting David's gaze once more.

"Mary Margaret, I said all I needed to say."

"Well I didn't."

His eyebrows hit his hairline and she swears she sees a faint flicker of familiarity light those oh so blue orbs.

"And you didn't say all you needed to say because you didn't give me a reason. You don't just break off… whatever this was without a reason."

He hangs his head and clenches his fists, the first sign that what he's about to say will be a lie. She wonders when she started to be able to tell his fact from fiction.

"I don't want to be with you."

"Yes you do."

"No I don't!" he yells, yet his voice cracks.

She cocks her head and gives him a weary, sad smile. He seems to crumble under the weight of her gaze.

"I know you, David Nolan. Not as well as I'd like to, yet. But I know you wouldn't do this unless there were some extenuating circumstances. And you're too damn noble to tell me the truth."

She's gambling and she never was very good at poker, but whatever this is – whatever he's hiding – can't be as bad as being without him. She'd take any truth over the lie he's trying to offer.

"You better ready your arsenal because I'll take whatever you have the strength to throw," she murmurs and his lips part, as if ready to contradict whatever she says, but his voice never comes.

And a wonderful thing happens then. A tear slips onto his cheek, a laugh escapes on the wave of a sob, and he shakes his head as if nothing in the world could remotely be right except for the six words about to leave his mouth.

"I'm so in love with you."

She breathes deeply, trying to cling to the fading evidence that proves the last few seconds just happened.

"What?"

xxxxxx

He can't help smiling. Not when she's giving him the same shocked/befuddled look she gave him when he said he knew she was having a girl; when he said he knew all along that a daughter was coming instead of a son. She so thought she had him fooled, but he could tell. And when she asked "How?" he had no answer. There are just some things a husband knows about his wife and a father knows about his child.

"_I will love her as I love you," _he had said. _"Unconditionally."_

"You what?"

"I love you," he says simply, unable to keep up the pretense. "I've loved you since the day I first met you."

"But you don't know me."

He smiles sadly, now remembering the words she spoke to him so long ago and yet just yesterday. He wonders if she felt this same sense of indescribable love and longing when she was Snow and he was still David Nolan, and he wishes more than anything that he could have spared her that.

_"I know you prefer the right side of the bed, and you can't sleep until you know that those you care for are safely tucked away. I know breakfast is your favorite meal of the day and that, despite working in an animal shelter, you're not particularly fond of cats. You like broccoli, but hate green beans. You're a sucker for dessert, and even more so for the women in your life. I know you've wanted that little girl for as long as you can remember. And I know, someday, you're going to make a fantastic husband to a wife who loves you, just as you are."_

"I know you," he murmurs. "I know you prefer the left side of the bed and hot chocolate before you sleep. I know you love sunny days but adore thunderstorms even more. I know you have a crazy connection with animals, particularly birds. You hate running, but your hand eye coordination is a fearsome thing to behold." He steps forward and watches as her lips part, gaze searching his. "And I know you want a child more than anything; almost as much as you want me."

She inhales sharply, confirming his truth.

"I know you, Mary Margaret. I know you better than you know yourself. Which is why I can't let you do this."

"_I don't want to do this."_

"You're not the one who gets to decide," she replies over the eighteen-year-old echo in his head.

"_It has to be you."_

"I'm not the one deciding," he says softly. "Nothing about this is my decision."

"I know that. Because you would never…" she trails off and gestures vaguely behind her, but the implication of her apartment and all that happened there is understood.

"I would never."

"Can I – " she reaches out and hesitantly steps forward. He should stop her – he _knows _he should – and yet he can't, closing his eyes and exhaling the breath he had been holding as her palms connect with his cheeks, gently cupping and tugging him closer until their shoes touch.

She doesn't move beyond that. She doesn't try to pull him down into a kiss, as if she's still aware of how precarious the situation is. She bides her time, stroking her thumb across his cheekbone and he can feel the weight of her scrutiny, despite the fact that his eyes are closed.

"So who is? Who's the one deciding?"

"Someone beyond our control." He finally opens his eyes and immediately gets lost in her gaze. It's not cloudy. Not despairing, as his most likely would be had the positions been reversed. Her eyes are fierce. Determined. Ready to remedy the situation at hand by whatever means necessary.

The woman before him is his wife, and he's never seen more of Snow in Mary Margaret than he does in this moment.

"Nothing is beyond our control," she whispers.

"_Let's take back the kingdom."_

"_How?"_

"_Like we shall do everything. Together."_

"I'm afraid, this time, it might be." He hates that he doesn't have her confidence. Doesn't have her determination. Not when their daughter and grandson are at stake. Still. He steps forward and closes the gap between them, brushing his lips across her forehead, because touching her lips might break the very last thread of self-control he's clinging to. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"Leaving me is hurting me," is the reply and he winces at the sharp twist in his chest.

"This isn't just about you and me." He pulls away and tucks a short piece of hair behind her ear.

"I had a feeling it wasn't," she says with a wry smile. "I also have a feeling that you'll do anything to protect me – "

"I would," he interrupts, and she reaches out to cup his cheek once more.

"But what does protecting me do to _you_? Who will save you?"

He covers her hand with his palm and leans into it, swallowing hard. "You already have."

And throwing caution to the wind, she steps forward and he meets her halfway, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her flush against him, crashing their lips together. He breathes her in, marveling at how easy she seems to make things. How bright even the bleakest day becomes with her at his side.

They stay like that for a while, a passionate embrace becoming soft nips until they're just standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding one another. The gesture is so achingly familiar that David has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down completely.

Instead, he focuses on this moment: on the feel of her arms around his neck and her breath against his skin and, finally, _finally_, he sees what she sees. He sees a person he cannot live without despite his innate need to protect her at all costs. Protecting her by rejecting her will do nothing but break them both.

And that, that is not something he's equipped to handle.

"So now what?" she whispers as she pulls away and he presses his forehead to hers.

"If I asked you – if I asked you to have faith, would you?"

"I'll always have faith in you." She says it simply, plainly, as if there was no other answer in the world.

"Would you wait?" he asks.

"Forever," she replies.

"I'm so sorry – " and this time, the tears do fall. They splash on his cheek, staining his skin, relieving him of the bone-deep agony he's been feeling for the past few hours.

"Don't be," she soothes, pressing her lips to his once more. "I know you have your reasons. I only hope one day I understand them."

"It won't be easy."

She cocks her head and smiles in a teasing way he's seen too many times, but can never get enough of. "The things worth fighting for rarely are."

And that's it. That's all it is. They've fought for so many things together: kingdoms, marriages, each other. This is just one more battle to add to the list.

They have years to go – nine to be exact – and Snow has never been known for her patience, but he hopes Mary Margaret will fare better.

He knows that he'll look exactly the same on Emma's 28th birthday as he will on her 19th. But he also knows that he'd wait eternity to call Snow's name and to have her reply in kind.

"We can't tell anyone," he murmurs and she smiles a smile that could level kingdoms.

"It'll be our secret."

xxxxxx

August shifts as he stands awkwardly on the front porch of the massive house in front of him. The rain has finally stopped but the chill in the air is biting, and as he tugs his leather jacket tighter around himself, he marvels at the prince's ability to be utterly and completely _still_.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Positive," David replies and August raises an eyebrow, keeping his skepticism to himself. But if it's good enough for the prince, it's good enough for the puppet.

David raises his hand and pushes the doorbell, listening as a resounding gong sounds on the other side.

"Go away!" comes a voice and David chuckles.

"Jefferson, open the door."

August listens to three moments of silence, before the door swings back and Jefferson stands there, cautious eyes darting between the men on his doorstep.

"What do you want, Deputy?" he asks with a weary sigh and David politely clasps his hands in front of him, a move he always made around the war room table whenever he was about to get what he wanted.

"Could we have a minute?"

Jefferson's eyes narrow and August tries dearly not to smile. "A minute," he finally concedes, stepping back and gesturing to the yards of fabric around him. "As you can see, I'm very busy."

"We won't take much of your time."

August follows them through the foyer, past the mess of half-completed hats, and into the living room where they face much of the same scene. Yards of cut up cloth, troves of scissors, and boxes of thread. The makings of a mad man.

Or a desperate father.

"What can I do for you?" Jefferson asks, coming to a stop in the middle of the room and crossing his arms over his chest.

"We need your help."

"And what could I possibly do for you? Hopper only sprung me from the psych ward a couple of weeks ago..."

"I saw the tea set in your car on my way up your driveway." Jefferson blanches as David continues, "I'm guessing you have a daughter that you love very much. Well... so do I."

The implication hangs heavy in the air and Jefferson blinks numbly for a moment, before his eyes widen, realization passing across his features. He sinks to the couch behind him and slowly glances up, eyes sweeping from David's clasped hands to his understanding eyes.

"Your highness?"

David nods. "Hatter."

Jefferson's offstandish facade immediately cracks as he buries his face in his hands. August shifts again and looks away, giving the man as much privacy as the circumstances allow.

"I've waited so long for someone to tell me I'm not losing my mind."

"You're not," David replies and Jefferson scoffs.

"Am I not? Do you have any idea what it's like to watch my daughter day in and day out, happy, with a new family? With a new father?"

David visibly tenses as he bows his head. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"Your daughter doesn't know you yet." It's not a question and "She does not," is David's clipped reply.

"But you get to raise her. Love her. My Grace has no idea who I am. That's my curse."

"If we can help you bear the burden, we will."

And August can't help but marvel at David's ability to diffuse a situation. He's passionate, yet levelheaded. Brave, yet cautious. Fearsome, yet kind.

The journey they have before them is a long one – potentially nine years long – but August knows he wouldn't want to embark on a quest with anyone other than the man currently at his right shoulder.

"So," Jefferson begins, "it's your daughter. She's the key. The key to getting my Grace back."

David nods. "And my wife."

"And my father," August pipes up.

"And who are you?" Jefferson asks, standing once more and taking a step forward.

"Pinocchio," he replies and the Hatter chuckles.

"Of course you are." He nods and glances between them both with an unsettling, yet clear gaze. "So we're it? We're all that know?"

David raises an eyebrow. "For now."

August watches as Jefferson walks over to the table and clears off the yards of fabric without much fanfare, gesturing to the empty seats. It's smaller, yet its resemblance to the round table of the kingdom's war room is uncanny. August has a feeling that David is experiencing a similar sense of déjà vu as he gently runs his fingers across the intricate wood.

"Can I get you anything?" Jefferson asks. "Tea, perhaps?"

"No!" August yells and David barely bites back a chuckle as he takes a seat at the table.

"Clearly my reputation precedes me," Jefferson wryly remarks as he takes a seat as well, resting his elbows on the table.

August shakes his head as he glances around, finally taking his place. David can't have Mary Margaret, Jefferson can't have Grace, and he can't have his father. Not until Emma realizes who she truly is. And that, that is the challenge. A challenge he is most definitely up for.

"So. The mad hatter, the pauper prince, and the wooden boy. We're Storybrooke's only hope?" he asks and David smiles.

"I've seen worse odds."

Jefferson leans back, kicking his feet up on the table and clasping his hands behind his neck.

"So, gentlemen, what's the plan?"

Oh yes, August thinks. This is going to be quite fun.


	25. Passages Part I

**This is going out to everyone who leaves a review here on FF. I'm really bad at responding, but I promise I read every single one and they absolutely, positively make my day/week/month. Thank you, thank you. **

_Passages_

_Part I_

It starts with the book.

They leave the gold-embossed tome open on various surfaces, always on a page with David's face looking back from the illustrations, but Emma passes by without notice or care. And when she does focus on it, it's only to settle on the couch with Henry, reading about the exploits of a bandit and her pretend prince.

Sometimes he hovers, hoping the similarities between the features he sees in the mirror and those on the page will trigger something within his daughter, but it never does. She continues the story, her voice unknowingly narrating the highs and lows of his life. His most triumphant glories and his harshest agonies.

He wonders who wrote it – who knew about the scar Snow gave him or the assurance that 28 years was nothing compared to eternal love. He's studied it in the wee hours of the morning, long after Emma has passed out, trying to deduce the author by process of elimination like a detective in a novel, but his questions remain unanswered. He has to settle for being a mere bystander – a rapt audience for words he knows too well.

And sometimes… sometimes he has to rush from the room, leaving a confused Emma behind, because the enormity of this truth is just too much for one set of shoulders to bear.

_October_

She flies through the diner door, unzipping her leather coat as she does so and jogs behind the counter, smiling sheepishly at Granny, who quirks an eyebrow and glances at the clock.

"I know, I'm late. I know." She hangs the jacket up on a hook and ties an apron around her waist. "Henry decided to projectile vomit all over the kitchen and – "

"Yo, I'm eating here," August complains, gesturing to his French toast.

"And I had to clean up every single drop – " she leans over the counter, goading him and he groans, pushing his plate away in disgust.

"I hate you."

"Emma, stop traumatizing my customers," Granny says as she heads back to the kitchen.

"It's just August. He doesn't count."

"Ouch," he chuckles, wiping his mouth on a napkin and leaning his elbows on the counter. "For that, I better at least get a free coffee refill."

"They're all free," she replies, pouring him one anyway, before dashing off to take an order from another customer.

But even with her back to him, she can feel August's eyes on her, watching her move about behind the counter.

"What?" she finally snaps when she passes by him once more.

"Your birthday's coming up, isn't it?"

And that was definitely not the answer she was expecting. She pauses, her hand halfway to the cash register, and spins to lean against the counter, eyeing him.

"Why do you care and how do you know that?"

He shrugs. "I overheard someone mention it."

"So?"

"So… I just thought you might be doing something. Birthdays are usually something to celebrate, aren't they?"

Wait… she cocks her head and rests her hands on her hips. "Are you hitting on me?"

"God, no," he scoffs and she bristles.

"All right, no need to sound so disgusted by the idea."

"That's not – that's not what I meant. Emma, wait – " he reaches over the counter and grabs her arm to keep her from walking away. "I truly meant nothing by it. I just… see you more as a friend. And friends usually do things for other friends' birthdays. That's all."

She opens her mouth, but every snappy retort has vanished from her mind. "Oh," she says instead. "Oh, I don't – I don't celebrate my birthday."

"Why not?"

His curiosity isn't what confuses her. It's his anticipation. His tone that seems to say, 'I know why you don't celebrate, but I want to see if you actually do.'

"I just don't," she replies, stubbornness winning out.

"Now, come on. People don't just decide to not celebrate their birthdays."

"People who grew up alone do," she snaps and his mouth immediately shuts as he pales considerably.

The pain in his face suggests that she might have gone too far, but she can't focus on that – not when the knot in her stomach has tightened so dramatically.

The bell in the kitchen rings, saving her from the situation and she dashes off to bring Dr. Hopper his omelet. But even as Archie thanks her, her eyes keep glancing over to August who sits hunched over on his stool, forehead resting against his fists.

He didn't mean anything by it. There was no reason to snap. But her birthday has always been a touchy subject and one she has dealt with alone. With a sigh, she grabs a cupcake from under its glass dome and slides it across the counter, letting it come to a stop in front of August's plate.

"I was placed back in an orphanage on my birthday when I was young."

"_Back _in an orphanage?"

She shrugs in an attempt to downplay the hurt that's stayed with her for the better part of thirteen years. "I was with a family… Well. Not a family, really just a foster father. But there were other people. It's all hazy, I was five… but I was happy. I had a birthday party, and they took me away."

"And they didn't come after you?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "No. He said he would, but… Oh well. He probably had a family of his own."

If anything, August looks even more pained that he did before, so she nudges the cupcake closer.

"Truce?"

He clears his throat and nods slowly. "Truce."

_December_

"David?"

"Hm?" He doesn't look up from where he sits cross-legged on the floor, a bow dangling in between his teeth as he tries to wrap a present for Henry without getting tape stuck everywhere.

"You know he won't be able to tear that open himself, right?"

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles. "It's the principle of the thing."

"Oh I see," she nods and he glares because he knows she's humoring him. She chuckles as she returns to her book, reaching out to absentmindedly bounce the toy hanging above Henry's head.

A few more minutes pass in happy silence, but she's been reading the same sentence over and over for the past twenty minutes and finally her curiosity gets the better of her.

"Look, I have to ask."

He glances up and raises an eyebrow, silently urging her on as another bow hangs between his teeth.

"You never told me what you two talked about after you banished me upstairs, and I'm okay with that. It's not my business. But seriously, what the hell is going on? You passed each other in the diner yesterday and didn't so much as glance at one another!"

His face pales and she knows she doesn't need to clarify whom exactly she's referring to. He calmly takes the bow out of his mouth and places it on the present he's just finished wrapping. It's the blue leather jacket she begged him to get her when she saw it in a store window.

"Your point?" he finally asks.

"David, you love her. I know you do – "

"I don't."

"What?"

"Love her. I don't."

She stares at him for a moment and sees a stranger in his eyes.

"You're a horrible liar."

A silent standoff ensues with Emma on the couch and David on the floor, a forgotten book and present beside them, respectively. Finally she cracks, unable to keep up the pretense of being angry with him on Christmas Eve.

"You're really not going to tell me?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "Some things are better left in silence."

"Not the things worth fighting for," she counters, standing and heading to the kitchen for some tea, playfully rubbing his head as she passes.

She pulls two mugs from the cabinet, opting for hot chocolate instead, and so immersed is she in the task at hand that she thinks it's a trick of the wind when she hears, "You are so like your mother" whispered from the vicinity of the living room.

_March_

"What? I thought we established the ground rule that there'd be food at these meetings," Jefferson groans as he drops into a chair and pouts.

David rolls his eyes and tosses a beer to him, taking great delight when the Hatter opens it and it overflows.

"August's grilling burgers out back."

Jefferson swallows and wipes his mouth. "You put the wooden boy in charge of the fire?"

"Better than the man who's completed at least two stints in Storybrooke's psych ward."

Jefferson clasps his hand over his chest and dramatically intones, "I'm wounded," before standing once more and making his way over to the highchair Henry sits in. "Well hello there. I see we're a party of four tonight."

"Emma's out with Ruby." David watches him like a hawk and Jefferson must notice, because he chuckles.

"Relax, your highness." And then his smile fades and he whispers, "You forget that I have more experience with children than you and the puppet put together."

The words are said with no malice and David nods, because sometimes he forgets that Jefferson is just a man trying to find his daughter. His desperation reads as madness, but David can sympathize. Some days, madness seems to only be a breath away when he stares at the daughter and wife who only see half of him in return.

The back door slides open, interrupting the melancholia as August triumphantly holds up a plate in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other.

"I only burnt two of them."

Jefferson gives him a slow clap and laughs when Henry joins in. "Smart kid."

Burgers are doctored and beers are distributed, but discussion on their lack of progress doesn't come until the alcohol loosens their tongues.

"The signs are right there, she just doesn't see," Jefferson says and August glares.

"Or she can't see. The curse isn't supposed to break until she's 28. Isn't that what Rumpelstiltskin saw?" he asks, turning to David, who nods gravely.

"It's what he saw." He remembers the day as if it was yesterday. The image of the imp's scaly flesh against his wife's white dress. The feel of his blade as the flat part came down on his hand.

"_Next time, I cut it off."_

David buries his nose in Henry's hair as the baby sits on his lap and reaches for the stack of poker chips in front of him.

"Well that's incredibly unfortunate," Jefferson drawls, taking a heavy swig of beer.

"Speaking of Rumpelstiltskin, it would be good to get Gold in on this."

David scoffs. "I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

August nods, as if conceding the point, but then he blurts out five words that throw David's world upside down.

"His son is Henry's father."

Silence. Utter silence has descended upon the table, but the blood is practically roaring in David's ears and Henry whimpers as his grip on him tightens. All of his senses have gone numb, which is why he doesn't register the front door opening and closing until Emma stands in the doorway, taking in the scene with bewilderment.

"Um, what's going on?"

"Poker night," Jefferson replies when it becomes clear that David won't be speaking any time soon. "Hi, I'm Jefferson," he says as he stands. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure. At least when I wasn't in handcuffs." He winks and Emma glances at David like he's lost his mind.

"Emma," she responds hesitantly, taking his hand and throwing another glance David's way. He tries to smile but only manages a wince when August kicks him under the table.

"So, poker night, huh?"

"Yep," David finally croaks.

"Look's like Henry's winning." She nods to the baby who's currently trying to stuff poker chips in his mouth.

"No, buddy." David admonishes, pulling the plastic away and watching as Emma steals a beer.

"I'll leave you boys to it, then. Don't bet the house away."

"I won't," he manages as she disappears upstairs.

"Sorry," August offers when she's gone. "I should've prepared you more for that bombshell."

"No shit," David mutters, holding Henry up in front of him and sighing deeply.

"What is it?" Jefferson asks unconcernedly, as if tonight's proceedings are the best entertainment he's had in a while.

David glares at him briefly before returning his gaze to his grandson. "Those eyes don't come from our side of the family."

_September_

Emma blows her hair out of her face as she stuffs an extra set of diapers into her bag and hikes it over her shoulder. A one-year-old's party shouldn't be this stressful – it's not like the kid'll remember it – and yet she hasn't felt this nervous since she stole her first car.

"Wipes, juice, toy, t-shirt… where's the t-shirt," she mutters to herself, lifting up piles of laundry and spare stuffed animals in search of David's old tee that Henry's taken to using like a security blanket. He won't go anywhere without it. "Come on, where are you?"

"Um, we have a small problem," David says from the doorway and Emma groans as she opens another drawer that doesn't have the item in question.

"Please, no more problems. I already can't find his blanket and I…" she trails off as she stands and gets a good look at him. He's got Henry hiked up on his hip and he's staring her like a man facing a firing squad. Immediately, her stomach drops. "What happened?"

But instead of showing her some fatal injury or gushing wound, he merely glances down at Henry and says, "Who am I?"

And Henry, god love him, giggles and gushes, "Dada."

Oh.

_Oh. _

Emma's mouth drops open a bit and now she understands the look on his face to be not fear, but pain.

"I don't – I don't know what to do," he finally says, and it might be the first time she's ever heard him utter those words. Indeed, he looks as lost as she's ever seen him, wide-eyed gaze darting between her and the baby.

"Um…" she takes a step forward, then another, until she's close enough to brush a lock of Henry's brown hair off his forehead. "I guess we shouldn't let him get into the habit."

"Yeah," David replies and she sees both relief and heartbreak on his face. He's probably waited forever for someone to call him 'Dada' and here she is, snatching it away from him.

"We can come up with something else, though. Something just as good, just for you."

"What, like 'Uncle David?"

"No. Not informal enough."

He quirks an eyebrow and places a quick kiss on Henry's head as the boy looks back and forth, brow creasing in confusion.

"How about 'Gramps?" she finally says, expecting him to bark out a laugh, but he sucks in a breath as his eyes widen. "I mean, you know, we don't _have _to. It's just… you're like a father to me, and you know, he should have that paternal figure in his life. And that's you. I don't know," she rambles, "I thought it was cute."

David doesn't say anything – just stands there, looking slightly dumbstruck. And just when she thinks he's about to storm out of the room, he hooks his free arm around the back of her neck and pulls her tight into his chest, placing a firm kiss on the side of her head.

"I love it."

"Okay then," she says as she pulls away, oddly choked up. "Gramps' it is."

_February_

Mary Margaret drums her fingernails on the counter as she patiently awaits her hot chocolate to go.

Red streamers litter the diner, reminding anyone passing by that Valentine's Day is only around the corner. Just in case they forgot.

She closes her eyes yet still sees the red behind her lids, and she bites her lip hoping the pain will distract from the familiar sting of tears.

"Mary Margaret?"

"Hm?" She blinks to find Ruby sliding her cup of hot chocolate across the counter.

"No charge," she says with a sympathetic wink and Mary Margaret isn't quite sure what she means until she turns to go and nearly smacks right into a flannel shirt she knows too well.

"Oh, sorry," she blurts out as strong hands reach out to steady her.

"My fault," is his reply and she closes her eyes again, sinking into his voice.

The Mayor is in the booth in the corner – she knows she is because Mary Margaret felt her cool gaze the moment she walked in the door.

David is protecting her. That she knows. She trusts him implicitly. She knows that, too. What she doesn't know is why she gets the eerie feeling that the Mayor is the reason behind David's protection, or why the Mayor would care if they're together in the first place.

But David has his reasons and she'd blindly follow him through the gates of hell without even being asked. So she pulls away and gives him a curt nod as he stands back to let her pass.

But that doesn't stop her heart rate from spiking when he gently rubs his thumb along the inside of her wrist – the minutest of gestures that conveys the greatest of wants.

_August_

Emma waves as August hops down the porch steps, nearly bumping into Graham as the sheriff attempts to make his way towards the house.

"Sheriff," he greets before swinging a leg over his motorcycle and speeding off down the street.

"Tell the kid that he better keep to the speed limit, or I'm giving him a ticket," he says as he climbs the stairs.

"Hello to you, too," she wryly replies, picking Henry up to keep him from reaching for the tools David was using to fix the window.

"Why is August hanging around here?"

"He was looking for David."

Graham puts his hands on his hips in what Emma likes to affectionately refer to as his 'interrogation stance.' "And when did he and David become such good pals?"

"Aw, are you jealous?" she teases and Graham glares, but doesn't dispute her claim. "Come on, I made lemonade."

His eyes widen as he follows her into the house, trudging now with the gait of a man heading to the gallows. "I've had your lemonade before – it's deadly."

"David likes it."

"No he doesn't. He drinks it because he loves you. And he doesn't want to hurt your feelings."

She turns around in mock indignation, placing Henry on the floor. "Baby, did you hear what he said about Mommy's lemonade? Get him."

And Henry does so with great delight, hurling himself at Graham's knees in an attempt to climb the man like the jungle gym. And Graham humors him for a bit, even when the attack dissolves into Henry gnawing on the fabric at Graham's knee.

Emma usually gets butterflies in her stomach when Graham's around, but in these moments, these precious minutes with Graham and her son, she actually allows herself to acknowledge them.

"I can't imagine that tastes good," he finally says and Henry glances up, raising his arms above his head as Graham swings him into the air.

"Gram!" Henry cries, the word seemingly interchangeable for both Graham and David, since the 'ps' of "Gramps" is still a work in progress.

"Yes?" he asks, but Henry merely giggles and buries his face in the sheriff's shoulder. "He's going for my badge, isn't he."

Emma cranes her neck and, sure enough, Henry might look like he's merely cuddling, but no, his right hand is working to unhook the badge from Graham's shirt.

"Why you cheeky little…" Graham trails off, pretending to bite Henry's cheek, and the baby squeals in delight, reaching out for Emma.

"Mama, help!"

"Nuh uh. You got yourself in this jam, kid."

Graham continues to tickle him as Emma pours a glass of lemonade, biting her lip to hide her smile at how happy the sight of the sheriff and her son makes her.

"I surrender, I surrender," Graham calls and Emma turns to see that Henry has tried to turn the tables, tickling the sheriff for all he's worth. Graham takes his hands, halting the assault, and places a kiss on his head. "You win."

Henry claps his hands together and Emma tries to swallow past the lump in her throat. She's holding a glass of lemonade in her hand, which Graham wordlessly reaches out and takes from her. She raises an eyebrow and goes to pour another, but the pitcher stops halfway in the air as his words come back to her.

"_He drinks it because he loves you. And he doesn't want to hurt your feelings." _

She turns to find Graham holding out his empty glass for another and wordlessly, she refills it.

_January_

David bounces on his toes as he waits for the daycare to let out, blowing warm air over his hands and thoroughly wishing he hadn't loaned Graham his only pair of gloves.

Just when he thinks he's lost all feeling in his toes, the doors open and Miss Walker stands there, sending out kids whose parents she sees waiting. David comes up the path and Henry comes bounding out a moment later, nearly tripping in his eagerness to show David his drawing.

"Gramps!"

"Hey, kiddo," he replies, swinging the boy in the air and earning more than one amused smile from the mothers waiting for their own children.

"Cold," Henry mutters once the excitement of the drawing has worn off and even though the boy's wearing probably ten layers, it's still Maine in January. So David unzips his coats and hugs Henry to his chest, before zipping up the jacket again and creating a kind of cocoon around the two-year-old.

"Better?"

He feels Henry nod against his chest and he places a kiss on his hair. "You know what this calls for?"

"What?"

"Hot chocolate?"

"With cimmanon?"

"Yeah, kid. With cimmanon." He starts back towards his truck, still chuckling slightly at Henry's mix-up, which is why he doesn't see Mary Margaret standing stone still in front of him until she quietly utters his name.

"David?"

He stops and marvels at how beautiful she looks, with her wind-bitten cheeks and pale skin.

"Hi," he says dumbly.

"Hi," she replies, gaze sweeping over Henry with a smile.

"What are you going to do when he outgrows your coat?"

"Buy a bigger coat," he replies, already dreading the moment when he'll no longer be able to hug Henry to his chest and keep out the cold. He's growing too quickly, yet he marks the passage of time. And every inch Henry grows is a step closer to Emma's twenty-eighth birthday. A step closer to getting the woman in front of him to call him 'Charming' and know that 'Snow' will leave his lips a moment later.

"How are you?" she finally asks, hugging her books to her chest like a shield.

"Fine, good," he replies. "And you?"

She shrugs. "Can't complain."

Silence descends but it's not awkward. In fact, it's crackling with energy as they drink each other in, eyes memorizing every beautiful detail this dreary January afternoon highlights.

Finally, David steps forward and takes Mary Margaret's hand, guiding her to the small measure of discretion the other side of his truck provides. And only when they're safely concealed does he cup her cheek in his palm and pull her towards him, brushing his cold lips against hers.

She sinks into it, mindful of Henry, and brings her hand up to cup the side of his face, before gently running her fingers along the shell of his ear.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs as he pulls away. "I'm so sorry, this isn't fair."

She brings her other hand up to the other side of his face and crosses her thumbs over his lips. "I said I'd wait."

"I love you."

"I know." She smiles a smile that does nothing to hide the tears he sees in her eyes and he hates himself for putting them there. "And when it's time, when it's safe for us to be together," she cocks her head and brings his free hand to her lips, "you'll know where to find me."

He closes his eyes as his own tears fall, her words an unknowing dagger to his heart. He feels her wipe the wetness from his cheeks before she clears her throat and he opens his eyes to find that she's put some distance between them.

"Goodbye, Deputy."

"Goodbye, Miss Blanchard."

He watches her go until he can no longer see her and, as if sensing the seriousness of the moment, Henry doesn't speak until she turns the corner.

"Who was that?"

"Someone very important."

"A princess?" he asks, and David silently thanks the fates for sending that fairytale book to their door.

"Yes, kiddo. Yes, she is."

_June_

Jefferson curses as the thorns from the nearby rosebush catch on his shirt for the tenth time in as many minutes.

"This is pointless. Her own father can't get her to wake up. You think the dog will?"

August shrugs and reaches down to pet the puppy tethered to the leash in Jefferson's hand. "You never know."

"I hate dogs."

"How can you hate this face?" August asks, cupping the puppy's chin and letting his big eyes fix on Jefferson.

"I hate everything."

"Now I know that's not true."

"You know what, Puppet – " he begins but August immediately clamps a hand over his mouth and nods towards the corner.

"Here she comes."

"This is ridiculous," he mutters one last time, before making sure he has a firm grip on the leash and stepping out into the middle of the sidewalk.

"Hey, Jefferson," Emma calls as she catches sight of him. "Did you get a dog?"

"Uh yeah," Jefferson replies. "About a week ago."

"French bulldog?" she asks and _shit _he was supposed to memorize that card the puppet gave him. Emma bends down to pet the puppy and Jefferson glances back at August who nods 'yes' emphatically.

"Yep, French bulldog. Just a few weeks old."

"Huh," she says as she rubs behind his ears. "There used to be a dog just like this one when I was little. At least I think there was." The tag jingles and she glances at the engraving.

Jefferson knows it reads _Rory. _

And something passes across her face then – something that has Jefferson holding his breath and praying to any god willing to listen – but it's gone before his prayers can be answered.

"Cute," she says as she stands again, smiling at him and continuing on her way.

He waits until she turns the corner before turning to the bush August is hiding behind and throwing his hands up in the air.

"I give up."

_November_

"August, that's your fifth cup of coffee."

He shrugs, even as his knee bounces. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"Maybe it's all the caffeine you consume during the day," she drawls as she walks away to fill up Archie's mug.

While she's away, August takes a moment to glance behind himself at David and Graham sitting in the booth. What he's about to do is a gamble – one that likely won't pay off if their track record is anything to go by. But he's running out of options, and he'd really like to not wait another six years.

"Are you going to stay here until lunch hour?"

"Business isn't exactly booming," he counters, gesturing around himself at all of the empty tables. She glares as she takes his plate away, yet she returns a moment later, which he counts as a minor victory. Granted, she returned to wipe down the counter, but still. He's making progress.

"David and Graham look good for their age. Don't you think?" he blurts out and the cloth pauses in the circle it had been making.

"Um, sure."

"How old do you think they are?"

"I don't know, late twenties? Early thirties?"

"You mean you never asked how old David was?"

"It wasn't important!"

"Still," August leans his elbows on the counter, glad to finally have her undivided attention. "You've been with David now for what? Four years?"

"So?"

"And the subject of his age never came up?"

"Well no, it just…" she trails off as she stares at the pair of them, brow creasing as her mind attempts to wrap itself around something it doesn't understand. "No, I guess it didn't," she finishes quietly.

She grabs the rag once more, but takes a moment before she continues cleaning. And August smiles as she galnces over at them thoughtfully for the remainder of the morning.

It's not a breakthrough, but it's a crack. And frankly, he'll take what he can get.

_April_

"Okay, kiddo," David begins as he pulls a box down from the top shelf of the hall closet. "Your mom might think you're a little young for this, but frankly, it's never too early to start."

But Henry merely cocks his head as he stands there in his footy pajamas, staring at David with a skeptical expression he definitely inherited from his mother.

"Come on, this is exciting," David prods, tucking the box under one arm and holding his other hand out for Henry to take, which the toddler does with much reluctance.

David leads him into the living room and places the box on the coffee table, before removing the lid, which causes Henry to gasp in delight.

The swords are a little dusty and the note accompanying them, the note he wrote as a promise at 3am is a little faded, but the words are still legible:

_For Henry._

And he intends to make good on his promise, pulling one out and then the other, gesturing for Henry to come closer.

"Now, these are toys, but I'm going to teach you how to fight with them. It's a skill every prince needs to know, right?"

"Right," Henry nods, taking the proffered sword with awe.

He probably shouldn't say what he's about to, but he needs to tell someone. He's been keeping it inside for over four years, ever since these pieces of wood reappeared in his life.

"I got these for your mother," he whispers. "But she never got to use them, so now they get passed on to you."

"Wow," Henry whispers as he waves the sword back and forth.

"Wait, wait," David chuckles. "You gotta get your footing right. Here," he starts, standing up and motioning for Henry to stand next to him. "Okay, put your left foot here and your right here…" he trails off as Henry mirrors his stance and it takes him a moment before he's able to continue.

It doesn't matter that it's way past Henry's bedtime. It doesn't matter that Henry is in fleece pajamas and David himself is in just boxers and a t-shirt. It doesn't matter that these swords were originally meant for someone else. It doesn't matter because this is a moment he's waited for for twenty-two years and he wants to treasure every single second.

By the end of the lesson, Henry has mastered his footing as much as a three and a half year old can, but he's losing the battle to keep his eyes open. But before David can suggest that they call it a night, a voice comes from the bottom of the stairs.

"Do I get a turn?" Emma asks, leaning against the doorframe with an expression that's equal parts amusement and exasperation.

"Busted," Henry murmurs and David swallows around the lump in his throat.

"Sure thing, princess," he quietly replies, flipping his sword around and holding the handle out for her to take.

She masters the basic moves by 1am and by 2am, she has him flat on his back and pinned to the ground, her sword resting just under his Adam's apple.

"You let me win, didn't you," she later asks as they climb the stairs and David smiles, shifting a passed out Henry in his arms.

"Oh we've only just begun."

_October_

"Truth or dare?"

"Oh Jesus," Graham murmurs, letting his forehead come to rest on his folded arms. "I knew it was a bad idea to let you get into the rum."

Emma laughs from her spot on the carpet, a forgotten game of Monopoly spread out between them. David was working the night shift at the station and Graham had come by to keep Emma company on spaghetti night. He let her talk him into breaking into the liquor cabinet and it was all downhill from there.

"Come on, truth or dare!"

"Truth."

"Do you drink my lemonade just to humor me?"

He barks out a laugh, definitely not expecting that particular line of questioning. "I drink your lemonade because I like your lemonade."

"I thought you said it was deadly."

"It's a bit tart," he concedes, but she's eyeing him like she's figured out a secret he didn't know he divulged.

"Truth or dare," he says.

"Dare."

"Oh hell, now I have to come up with something for you to do? I don't like this game. It involves too much thinking."

She laughs and takes another sip of the drink he watered down when she wasn't looking. His first drink, though, was plenty strong and now the room is just a bit wobbly.

"I dare you… he glances around and frowns at his lack of inspiration. "I dare you to do a handstand."

Her face falls and she scoffs. "A handstand? I thought it was going to be something more radical like… streaking down Main St. or something."

"Oh boy, I don't believe we've reached that portion of the evening." David is going to _murder _him. "And besides, it wouldn't reflect well on the town for the sheriff to condone Main St. streaking."

"What about side street streaking?" she retorts and he opens his mouth to answer, but finds that what he believed to be a drunken taunt is looking more and more like a sober challenge.

Emma is not drunk. Her eyes are clear and her giggles are forced. He knows this because he's memorized her laughs by now.

"Emma, how old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"As of?"

"Yesterday."

"How many fingers am I holding up?" he holds up two and she cheekily responds, "Four."

His blood is roaring in his ears, but he can't pry his gaze away from hers. Hers, which is looking more and more terrified/hopeful with every passing moment.

"Truth or dare?" she quietly asks and he shakes his head.

"You didn't do my dare yet."

"Truth or dare," she repeats and he finds, "Dare" leaving his lips.

He knows it's coming before she says it. He's anticipating it and yet he's still vaguely awed when "Kiss me" finally tumbles from her mouth. That doesn't make him any less quick to comply, though.

Her lips brush his and it's beautiful and amazing, but it's nothing compared to the howl of a wolf currently echoing in his ears.


	26. Best Laid Plans

**Oh hey there. Remember me?**

_Best Laid Plans_

"Graham?"

Her voice is soft and her lips are warm, breath ghosting across his face with the promise of things to come, but he can't focus on that, as enticing as it is.

"_Tell me, Huntsman, what kind of man cries over an animal?" _

"_An honorable one." _

"Graham." Her tone is curious, even as her lips press against his closed eyelids, as if coaxing them to open. It's a request he desperately wants to comply with but to open his eyes would mean to face the truth. And right now, the truth is as muddy as the river's waters.

"_What do you know about honor?"  
_

"_I have it. They have it. You don't." _

"Graham!"

He pulls away with a gasp, like he's breaking through the water's surface, and stares at Emma and the concern she's radiating. He opens his mouth but words don't come, yet she's waiting for him with a patience he knows she doesn't possess.

"I remember," is what eventually leaves his mouth on the edge of a whisper, carrying with it the weight of two different lives.

"You remember what?"

They're still sitting on the floor – he remembers that. A forgotten game of Monopoly lies beside them – he remembers that, too. A game of Truth or Dare begun and then rapidly abandoned. It's burned on his brain with the severity of a brand.

"I have to go."

"Go where? Graham!"

Her voice echoes in his fractured mind, but his feet are carrying him out the door before the Sheriff can call the Huntsman back again.

xxxxxx

"No running!" she calls, gathering the crayons in one hand as she shoos Paige out the door with the others.

"Bye, Miss Blanchard!" the girl calls and Mary Margaret smiles as she accepts the pear Paige pushes into her hand.

"Thank you!" she manages to shout just as the door closes shut behind the gaggle of children, leaving her in blissful silence, chuckling to herself. It's Friday, a day to celebrate to be sure, but when the weekend holds nothing but tea and books for company, Friday afternoon is greeted with less fanfare than is normally warranted.

"Mary Margaret?"

The visitor is unexpected, but she turns and smiles widely at Graham, attempting to see him as the sheriff once more, and not just as David's best friend. It's a label she cannot afford to dwell on at the moment.

"Graham. To what do I owe the pleasure?" She stacks the math books back on the shelf and gestures for him to take a seat at a desk entirely too small for him. He perches on top of it instead and wipes a hand over his sweating brow. "Are you okay?" Her hand hovers on the final textbook as she eyes him up and down.

He's wearing clothes she's sure he slept in, and his carefully tussled hair is more unkempt than normal. He's pale and clammy, and breathing like his lungs are fighting for air. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he was having a panic attack, but Graham Humbert is as cool and collected as they come.

"Mary Margaret, are you…" he narrows his eyes and cocks his head, as if searching her face for some explanation she can't give. "Do you know me?"

Oh boy. "Graham, did you hit your head?"

"I mean – that's not what I meant," he backtracks, pressing his fists into his forehead. "I mean, how long have we known each other?"

She frowns as she moves to sit opposite him. "Um, I don't know. A while."

"Do you remember when we met?" He's looking up at her with too-hopeful eyes, and she opens her mouth, an answer ready to tumble from her lips, but then her mind goes utterly and completely blank – the answer missing as if someone had clipped it out of a newspaper.

"Um… no," she replies with a shake of her head.

"Nothing? You don't remember anything?" He's pleading with her now, and she's at an utter loss.

"I'm sorry, Graham. I don't."

He gives a humorless chuckle and sits back, rubbing his hands harshly across his face. "Isn't that odd?" he practically spits.

"I suppose," she replies in a calming tone. Yes, it's odd. Of course it's odd. But as she sits here and rapidly tries to remember her first introduction with anyone in town, she's starting to think that odd isn't a bizarre enough term for it. "But you know, that's just life. Things get hazy," she offers, with no real conviction behind her words.

The second hand of the clock ticks slowly as Graham studies her once more with an acuity he never had as sheriff. No, it's like… like she's being hunted, as his gaze roams across her face.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

"Oh, Graham, no. Of course not. What is going on?" But as soon as the words leave her lips, she finds herself no longer in her classroom. Her students' drawings have become the leaves of the trees that stand tall and foreboding in the surrounding forest.

"_You're not a knight, are you." _

"_What makes you say that?" _

"_Without fail, every one of my father's men has offered me condolences… except you." _

"Do you believe in other lives?"

"_She picked you to take me. Why?" _

"Mary Margaret?"

"What?" she asks with a gasp as she blinks, allowing the fluorescent lights and befuddled cop in front of her to come back into focus.

"Do you believe in other lives, I asked."

"Oh." She shakes her head, wondering what on earth that was. "You mean like heaven?"

"I mean like past lives." Graham is now leaning so far forward, she worries he'll tumble headfirst to the floor.

"No, Graham," she replies softly. "I don't."

He hangs his head in response and she places her palm on the back of his neck.

"You're burning up," she whispers, moving her hand around to his forehead. "Go home."

"I can't."

"Graham – "

The sheriff stands abruptly. "I need David."

Oh. Mary Margaret goes stiff just at the name and reels back as if slapped. Her gut tightens and her eyes sting, but she can only nod because she knows Graham meant no offence. Of course he needs his best friend. And Mary Margaret knows that if anyone is going to get him through… whatever this is, it's David.

"Then go find him," she finally whispers and Graham gives her a grateful smile.

"Thank you, S-Mary Margaret." He trips over her name, like something else had been about to leave his lips, but she pays it no mind, standing on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek.

"Be careful."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, holding her tighter than he's ever held her before.

And when he lets go, she feels as though he's taking some long lost piece of her with him.

xxxxxx

The sun is shining and the children are screaming as August attempts to navigate his way through the throngs of kids making their way out of the school for recess. He's attempting to balance two cups of coffee and a bag of pastries from Granny's while simultaneously searching above the short heads for Jefferson, to no avail. It takes two near spills for him to successfully bob and weave his way through the crowd.

"They didn't have blueberry," August mumbles through a full mouth when he finally finds Jefferson leaning against a stop sign. He tries to hand him a bag containing a banana muffin, but the hatter doesn't move to take it. "Hello?"

"Hm?"

"It's banana," he replies, pushing the bag into Jefferson's hand.

"What is?"

"The muffin you asked me to get."

"I wanted blueberry."

August stares at him for a moment. "Yes, and they were out," he says slowly. "What's wrong?"

Jefferson says nothing – merely stares straight ahead as if looking any other place would result in the worst kind of torture.

And then he hears it: a giggle, light and lyrical and almost as bouncy as the girl it comes from. August has seen her before, long brown hair trailing behind her as she skips down the street, but never has he put two and two together. His gaze darts between the man beside him and the girl running towards the hopscotch course, realization dawning as their shared features come sharply into focus.

"Is that her?"

Jefferson gives a stiff nod. "That's her."

"Grace," August murmurs and Jefferson smiles.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Not calling her 'Paige." Finally, the hatter tears his gaze away from her and glances at the bag August has pushed into his hand. "Banana, huh?"

"Granny sends her sincerest apologies."

"I bet," he replies as he bites into the baked good. After a moment of thoughtful contemplation, he swallows and returns to watch his daughter twirl in the sun. "Is it ever like this for you?"

"Like what?" August replies, licking his fingers from having already inhaled his snack.

"When you see your father. Is it like this?"

The question is like a sucker punch to the gut, and August inhales sharply as he toys with the rim of his coffee cup.

"I don't see my father. If I can help it. I'm not ready."

"Neither am I," Jefferson shrugs. "Yet, rather like David, I can't tear myself away."

August watches Grace shriek with laughter, feeling a pang in his heart at remembering how his father used to watch him in much the same fashion. The pride in his eyes as Prince James (Prince David, really) taught August how to swordfight could buckle the knees of the most hardhearted of men.

"What's the sheriff doing here?"

"Huh?" August blinks and follows Jefferson's finger to the man currently stumbling through the doors of the school and into the afternoon sun. "He doesn't look okay."

And he really doesn't. His skin is pale and, even from this distance, August can tell that he's sweating. His gait is hurried, yet undetermined – so unlike his usual pace.

"He looks…" Jefferson trails off and studies him. "He looks like a man on the hunt."

"The hunt…? Oh. _Oh._" Realization hits him like a truck and his mouth drops. "You don't think…"

"I do think."

"Should we – " August begins to take a step towards Graham, but is halted by Jefferson's hand on his chest.

"No, no," he murmurs. "This one David needs to handle."

xxxxxx

"Dammit, Graham," David murmurs as he tosses the empty can of coffee in the trash and rubs his tired eyes. He's got a few hours of his shift left and Graham has a habit of killing the coffee and not replenishing. For someone who's been on duty all through the night, he handles the disappointment surprisingly well: he flops facedown on the couch in the sheriff's office with a groan and only few mumbled curses.

He's not sure how long he stays there – sleep tugs at the edge of his mind, pulling him from the present to the past as enticingly as Snow when she convinced him to swim in the moat at midnight. He wonders how spaghetti night went and whether Graham finally reneged on his vow to never play Monopoly with Emma again. He wonders if Henry had another nightmare, as he's done ever since Graham accidentally let him watch _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang._ About so many things, he wonders…

It's the creak of the door that catches his attention, but it's the halting footsteps and harsh breathing that have him sitting up with an alertness he lacked moments before.

"Hello?"

Graham turns the corner a moment later and David lets out a breath, hand lowering from where it hovered over his holster.

"You knock over coat racks when we're trying to sneak up on an intruder, but when you show up for work two hours early, you're as stealthy as can be." He swings his legs over the side of the couch and rubs his eyes. "Please tell me you brought coffee."

Graham shakes his head but there's no sarcastic comment to follow it up and David pauses.

"Graham?" He stands to move towards him, Graham drops to the floor, and for one horrifying moment, David remembers watching his best friend bend into bow of agony, mouth open in a silent scream, before crumpling to the ground. "Graham!" He rushes forward out of instinct, but when the sheriff appears uninjured, he pauses and cocks his head, utter confusion creasing his brows. "Why the hell are you kneeling?"

Graham places his hand on his chest and bows his head, staring at his shoes in a way that makes David think the sheriff's still drunk on the rum Emma no doubt stole from the liquor cabinet. But that suspicion is short-lived, because Graham says two words in greeting that make David's blood run cold.

"Your highness."

The air is thick with silence, suffocating him with a truth he wasn't remotely prepared for. His pulse pounds and his breath is short, but the man in front of him remains on bended knee, eyes never wavering from the linoleum floor.

"Oh god…" A bow and arrow, an escape. A sacrifice. "Huntsman?"

All it takes is a nod for David's heart to burst. He knows. Graham knows. The man he's so desperately wanted and needed to know is aware of who and what he is. It feels as though a concrete block has been lifted from his chest, but then a startlingly heavy truth slams into him, stealing whatever sense of comfort he had felt moments before. "But how... how are you awake?"

It takes a moment, then two, for realization to sink in and his stomach drops.

"You didn't. Graham, tell me you didn't."

But he can't and the shake of his head is all the confirmation David needs.

xxxxxx

The linoleum is hard and cold, much like the aching void he feels in his chest.

He needs David's guidance, his answers, and – most importantly in this moment – his forgiveness.

"I…" he swallows hard, but doesn't dare raise his gaze. "I haven't felt anything in a long time. Ever, it seems. Except when I met her. I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I didn't mean to kiss her – I mean, I did, but… I didn't go there with that intention."

There are many other matters to discuss: how they got here, how they'll get back, who else knows – but explaining the matter of Emma and all that just her name implies is his primary concern.

And then it hits him, as sure and as painful as the tip of his sharpest arrow: Emma isn't just a girl that David took in one evening. And if Graham needed any more proof beyond the features they share, David's stony silence is evidence enough.

"She's your daughter, isn't she." It's not a question and he doesn't expect an answer. "She's the child I heard about. The savior." He inhales shakily. "The girl who found her way to you anyway. Twice, in fact."

Graham finally looks up in time to see David visibly swallow.

And he knows what he's about to say will hurt in some capacity, but he means it as sincerely as he means anything.

"You always did have a habit of finding the ones you love."

And sure enough, David rubs a rough hand across his face as he brushes by Graham. And the Huntsman remains on the floor of the Sheriff's office long after the door bangs shut behind his deputy.

Behind his King.

xxxxxx

Emma decides the kitchen is entirely too small on her twentieth lap around its wooden table. It's been hours, but she can still feel the softness of his lips and the tang of the rum he left on her tongue. It's felt more presently even than the lack of sleep his abrupt departure caused.

"Mama, can I have more juice?" Henry's empty cup clatters to the ground, causing Emma to jump. "Oops."

"Of course, kid."

"I didn't mean to drop it."

"I know, baby." She picks up the cup, still marveling at the fact that she's able to kick into 'Mommy' mode whenever her son may need her, and holds it up. "No harm done."

He gives her a shy smile and she waits until he returns to his Cheerios before her own grin slips. She tries to focus on the fact that they're almost out of apple juice. And milk and toilet paper, for that matter. She briefly debates on calling David and asking him to pick some up on his way home, but he'd inevitably ask how her night was and she's not ready to face the question herself, let alone from him.

What on earth would she say?

"Uh oh…" Her two favorite words leave her son's mouth and she grimaces before turning to find his shirt covered in juice. "It wasn't empty that time."

"No, kid, it wasn't," she chuckles. "All right. Arms up."

He obediently lifts them so she can tug his shirt over his head and, with strict instructions that he not move an inch, she runs upstairs to get him some clean clothing. She's not gone long – certainly not long enough for Henry to get into trouble (then again, he _is _her son) – yet she can't help feeling like something isn't right when she descends once more.

And upon entering the kitchen, she knows why.

David is sitting at the table holding Henry in his lap like someone could take him away at any moment.

Her stomach drops at the look on his face – it's terror and hope and love and anger all rolled into one indistinguishable crease of his brow as he hugs her son closer to his chest.

"David?"

Two sets of eyes glance up at her – one blue, one brown – and Henry lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees she has his Captain America t-shirt in her hand.

"I won't spill on this one, I promise!" he yells as he wiggles off David's lap to the floor.

"We'll see," she replies, pulling the shirt over his head and placing a kiss in his hair. He smells like cinnamon and David's shampoo and it takes all of her will power not to hold him as tightly as David did moments ago. "You're early," she finally whispers when she has the courage to meet his gaze, and what she finds there haunts her.

"Graham showed up," is his gruff reply and her stomach immediately tightens.

"Oh?" And if her voice has gone up an octave, she doesn't dare acknowledge it.

David holds her gaze for a moment that seems to stretch for eternity before stepping forward and placing a large hand on Henry's head. "Hey, kiddo, how about you head into the living room and we'll start the next chapter of the book."

Damn David for knowing just what to say to get Henry out of the room, because the boy's eyes light up and he's just shy of screaming as he runs from the kitchen to settle on the couch, just out of earshot.

"Well played," she replies, getting right down to the point and David responds with, "Do you like him?" so clearly, neither is in the mood for games.

"No." Her response is kneejerk, a reflex, and David knows it.

"Emma."

She shakes her head, suddenly feeling the exhaustion from the last few hours. "I never could lie to you."

"Not well, at least." He smiles and Emma finds that she's missed it.

"I do like him. I wouldn't have kissed him if I didn't."

"Wait. _You_ kissed _him_?"

Shit. "Maybe?"

"Emma!"

"We were playing Truth or Dare!"

"I don't want to know the particulars!" He claps his hands over his ears and she can't help but laugh at how adorable/ridiculous he's being.

She crosses her arms over her chest and waits with a raised eyebrow until he decides to act his age once more. Finally, he brings his elbows to rest on the table, sighing deeply and he stares at her, looking like he's aged ten years in the past ten minutes.

"What?" she asks softly and he shakes his head.

"I just – you're a woman. Sometimes I forget you're not a kid anymore."

"I haven't been a kid for a while."

"You were to me," is his quiet reply and something inside her twists. They're silent for a moment, staring at each other and attempting to say all that they never will, but finally David sighs again, his fate resigned. "You really like him?"

"A lot. More than I should, I know."

"No, not more than you should. There are no boundaries where lo- _liking_ is concerned."

She's pretty sure he had been about to say 'loving' instead, but her wide eyes must have brought about the change. And good thing too, because any implication of love would have had her searching for the nearest paper bag to breathe into.

"So I shouldn't kill him?"

"Please don't." She rolls her eyes, but can't hide her smile. Because someone just threatened to defend her honor and it's something she hasn't let herself think about since she realized as a child that no white knight was coming to her rescue.

Yet here he is: wrinkled and disheveled and unshaven, but knightly.

"I know he's your best friend and it's weird – "

"Very weird," he interrupts.

"He's a good man," she reasons.

David's features soften and he reaches across the table to squeeze her arm. "The best."

She places her palm on his and squeezes back. "Almost as good as you."

He smiles, but something passes across his face – something dark and distant, like an old memory that has only now decided to make itself known once more – but just as quickly as it came, it went.

"So I really can't kick his ass?"

She bites her lip, remembering the image of his tense back as he walked away from her without looking back. No matter how many times she called his name.

"Maybe a bit."

He's out the door before she can even tell him why and she kind of loves him for that.

xxxxxx

He shouldn't be here, he knows that.

In fact, being in front of number 108 is quite possibly one of the worst decisions he's ever made. He's been in her bed more times than he ever wants to think about and the realization makes him physically ill, causing him to pause on her walkway and place his hands on his knees.

He doesn't want her – not in the slightest. He wants answers she can possibly provide, because if anyone was capable of transporting them between worlds, it's her. The Evil Queen.

He raises his hand to knock and pauses for a moment, seeing Emma's face flash before his eyes. He wants nothing more than to be wrapped up on a couch with her, watching some horrible movie of the week, with Henry passed out on his lap.

Henry.

Emma is a packaged deal, and Graham feels like he's just won the lottery. But things are more complicated than that, as they always are when it concerns the thing you want most. If finding out the truth gets him closer to that dream, then he'll embark on any quest to get there.

It takes roughly 15 seconds after he knocks for the door to open and for Regina to stand there.

It takes Graham a moment to reconcile the woman in the ornate clothes accented by a hellish fury with the woman standing in front of him with minimal makeup and cotton trousers.

"Sheriff, what can I do for you?"

"Do you have a moment?"

She raises an eyebrow, a gesture he now recognizes for what it is: both invitation and mockery.

"Of course," she replies, stepping back and allowing him into the foyer. "Are you well? You don't look good."

"Fine," is his gruff response, but even he knows he's doing a crap job at playing pretend. "Regina… how did we… I mean – " he licks his lips and clears his throat, causing her to take a step forward and place her hands on his chest.

"Graham, what's going on? Talk to me."

He's never heard her voice so soft and it does nothing to help his roiling stomach. If anything, it makes him queasier.

"I just – I need answers."

"About what?"

He's a moment away from spilling all. He can feel the words on the tip of his tongue as readily as if she had placed him under a curse to speak only truths, but just as they're about to tumble forth, the door opens and David stands there panting, as if he had just run the whole way.

"David?"

"Deputy Nolan, can I help you?" Regina snaps, dropping her hands from his chest and Graham exhales loudly, not realizing until that moment that he had been holding his breath. He touches the place on his chest, just over his heart that is still warm from her touch and feels stillness beneath his fingertips.

"I just need the sheriff, actually," David replies, taking a step towards Graham and (perhaps) consciously putting himself in between the sheriff and the mayor.

"For what?" Regina replies.

"Business." David grabs his arm and begins to move him towards the door with an urgently fierce grip he usually reserves for dragging Graham from The Rabbit Hole at last call.

"Aren't I privy to matters of business?"

"Actually, no, Madam Mayor. I checked the city ordinance," is all David says as he manhandles Graham into the evening and slams the door behind them. It takes the sheriff ten paces or so before he's able to find his voice.

"David – "

"Stop talking. Keep moving."

"… Okay." Graham frowns and allows himself to be led away from the Mayor's house and towards the station.

"She can't know," David finally murmurs when the cruiser becomes visible.

"Know what, exactly? I'm still catching up."

"She can't know you're awake. That you remember who you are."

Graham remembers the old Regina, the Queen who kept him bound to whichever surface she deemed convenient, and wholeheartedly agrees with David. The less she knows, the better for all involved.

"How'd you know _I_ knew?"

"What?" Graham shakes his head and realizes David is holding the door open to let him through.

"You walked up to me and kneeled down. How did you know I wasn't just David Nolan? That could have been incredibly awkward."

Graham can't help but laugh as he's led through the lobby and into the bullpen, before dropping unceremoniously into a chair as a tumbler of scotch is pushed into his hand. Glancing at the amber liquid, he becomes surprisingly somber.

"I can pinpoint the day. Down to the hour and, in fact, the very minute when you knew."

At David's questioning glance, Graham shrugs.

"It was in the way you carried yourself. One day, you walked like a deputy. The next, a king. A hard distinction to miss when you've spent a lifetime observing." He takes a sip and winces. "Granted, at the time I didn't quite understand what I was seeing, but hindsight is 20/20, they say."

"So it is," David murmurs, taking a long pull of his own drink and eyeing Graham over the rim of his glass.

"Are you here to kick my arse?"

"No, actually," David says. "I'm here to save it."

"What?"

"I gave up my heart so that the Queen would spare Snow's.' You said that to me once, a long time ago. They say hindsight is 20/20. I didn't understand those words the first time I heard them. But I do now."

"David – "

"You've saved my life and my wife's. Let me return the favor." David puts his glass down and brings another chair over, sitting in it so they're eye to eye. "We're getting your heart back because it belongs to my daughter. And when you're rightfully put back together, only then will I kick your ass. I wouldn't want you to claim I had an unfair advantage."

Graham stares at him for a moment, unsure if he wants to hug him or punch him, or both in quick succession. Punch him for risking his life. Hug him for offering in the first place. Instead, he settles for a handshake, which doesn't last long anyway as David pulls him into a bone-crushing hold.

"It's good to see you again, old friend."

"Good to be seen," he replies.

Silence reigns for a moment, before David says six words the sheriff's been waiting to hear for far longer than he'll ever admit.

"You hurt her, I kill you."

Graham laughs but doesn't let go. "Yes, sir."

xxxxxx

Regina stares out of the window long after the men have turned the corner, fingers stilled over the sill in quiet contemplation. The melody they usual drum out has long since deserted her. She can't find her rhythm when the underlying beat, the routine by which she sets her days, is so out of whack.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

And she has a feeling that any thread she followed would lead her back to a certain deputy. And more importantly, to a girl with her mother's face and her father's eyes.

She narrows her gaze, imagining it landing on the sheriff's back and burning through his leather jacket, down to the soft skin beneath. Skin she's kissed and loved and now apparently lost.

She taps one finger, then two, until finally her beat is found again.

It might be time to pay her father a visit and rest some flowers in his mausoleum.

xxxxxx

That week, Gold notices a missing item from his inventory. A guitar case with red velvet finishing, its contents more lethal than lyrical.

A sickly smile slides across his face as he gently taps the top of the glass case with his cane.

A plan is brewing.

His highness has come home.


	27. Of Mice and Men

_Of Mice and Men_

There's a sound that's indescribable. It's light, yet heavy. Comforting, yet terrifying.

It's the sound of something sharp slicing through breath and wind and whisper, and as Graham watches David bring the sword up over his head before crossing down to the ground once more, he closes his eyes, feeling home for the first time a very long while.

He wants to get his hands on a quiver and bow more than anything in the world as he watches David practice in the bullpen of the station. He itches to feel the pull of the string against the pads of his fingers, feel his hand rest against his cheekbone as he sets up his aim. An aim which will find its target, of that he has no doubt.

"Feel any different?" he asks and David shakes his head.

"I didn't realize I felt like I was missing a limb until this was back in my hand."

"Says the shepherd."

David chuckles and measures the weight of the blade once more, yet Graham can feel the prince's gaze continually fall back on him.

"I'm fine, David."

And the scoff that he gets in reply makes him smile, because David's been eyeing him like he's going to drop at any moment, and if the rapidity with which he stole back his sword is any indication, David is just as eager as Graham to get his heart back to its rightful owner.

"Where could she possibly have it?"

He shrugs. "I never saw it in her house, but then again, I didn't know I was looking for it."

"I doubt she'd leave it out in the open like a bowl of fruit," David drawls as he sheaths the sword and stretches his neck, gaze continually darting to Graham despite the latter's attempts to act like nothing is amiss. "You're not fooling anyone, you know."

"Damn." He chuckles but the grin fades from his lips the minute David's back is turned.

He's never had a friend before, he's realizing now. He spent his life alone with nothing but the wind and the woods and the wolves for company. But then David came along – a man that the Huntsman in him never knew he was lucky enough to have.

His fingers drift to the badge on his chest and with a gentle yet firm tug, he frees it from the cloth of his vest.

"I need you to do me a favor."

David turns and raises an eyebrow. "I really hope it's not on par with getting your heart back. I don't think I can handle more than one life-saving mission at a time."

Graham quirks a smile, but when it doesn't reach his eyes, David straightens as all traces of humor leave his face.

"What do you need?"

Graham holds out the badge, feeling of the weight of responsibility and duty heavy in his palm. David blinks down at it and then back up into Graham's face.

"I need you to take this."

David looks at it for a moment more, before shaking his head and taking a step back. "I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. I need you to."

"You're the Sheriff – "

"No, _you _are."

The men stare at each other in a silent standoff, the badge hovering between them like the last spoil in a war.

"David, I need you to take this. The town needs a sheriff – a leader – and I can't be that right now. Not when I could drop – "

"Don't," David snaps, cutting him off. "Stop acting like you're going to die."

"I might."

"I won't let it happen!" David yells, his calm veneer cracking, and Graham's eyes widen because he hasn't seen David look this distraught since he showed up on Graham's doorstep and uttered a sentence Graham never thought he'd hear:

"_I don't think I can see Mary Margaret anymore."_

"_What? Why?"_

"_I can't… I can't explain. You wouldn't believe me." _

Of course. It all makes sense now.

Graham cocks his head and stares at his friend with newfound understanding. He's been punishing himself to protect the woman he loves. And just when Graham thought he couldn't get more noble, the damn man goes and has to save his life too.

"I won't let it happen," David repeats more quietly, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest with a finality he can't guarantee.

The sheriff in him is offering new prospective the Huntsman didn't have time to see. David is stubborn, fierce, and unfailingly hopeful. Watching him now reminds him of the man who spent days screaming for Snow White in his cell. Yelling her name until his voice was hoarse and his tears were spent. Graham sees the determination in David's eye now that he saw in the Prince's when he freed him from his shackles.

The man in front of him won't let anything happen to the people he loves. And the realization that Graham is one of those people nearly levels him.

"I love your daughter." The admission tumbles from his lips, but he can't be bothered to bite it back.

"I know you do," is the soft reply he receives as the man in front of him begrudgingly takes the badge. "Go talk to her."

Graham's head shoots up. "You don't mind?"

"Of course I mind. She's… she's the infant I nearly died for. The girl that was taken from me. I've spent my life losing her, so…" he inhales deeply and smiles sadly. "Forgive me for wanting to hold onto her for just a while longer."

Graham swallows, but doesn't dare say a word.

"If it had to be anyone, I'm glad it was you," David continues. "Just remember: she's 23 – and I have a sword."

Graham's eyes widen ever so slightly and he swallows hard, because he knows that no matter how much history he has with his deputy, David wouldn't hesitate to use his well-honed battle skills when it came to Emma.

"Understood."

Though his life is being threatened by the father of the woman he loves, he knows that this is a moment he will cherish in the darkness to come. And no matter how much time he has left, however long fate decides to give him, David and Emma and Henry will light his days until they're done.

This truth is like a warm blanket, covering the cold emptiness of his chest and filling it with the faintest glimmer of hope.

A glimmer that is shattered as a wolf's cry echoes through the night.

xxxxxx

David lunges for Graham just as the former sheriff makes a move for the door, grabbing him around the torso and pinning his arms to his sides.

"Get off me – !"

"Graham – "

"I have to follow it!"

"Graham, stop!"

"It can lead me to my heart!"

David tightens his grip and holds on until the other man's struggles tire out.

"I will follow it," he finally murmurs when Graham stops yelling. "Go to Emma. I'll follow the wolf."

Graham sags as his legs give out and David follows him to the floor, ensuring he has a gentle landing.

"You haven't slept at all. You're exhausted. Go home."

"I can't – "

"Graham." David moves around him and crouches down in front. "You gave me this badge. As your king and your sheriff, I'm ordering you to go home."

He knows his words don't hold much weight. They're only breath and tone. Yet he hopes Graham sees them for what they are: an offer, a hope, a prayer, a plea. David needs him to go home because if Graham does something stupid and runs headfirst into danger, Emma will never forgive him. And David will never forgive himself.

"Emma needs you, Graham. And you need her. Go to her."

"Yes, sir," Graham quietly murmurs and David smiles because he's not sure which order the Huntsman was following: the king's or the sheriff's.

And he finds it doesn't matter, because the simple truth is: they are both.

xxxxxx

The breeze is cool as Regina steps over twigs and tombstones, pulling her peacoat tighter around her torso to fend off the October breeze.

It's been too long since she's been here, but whether that was by chance or choice, she's not entirely sure. She misses her father dearly, yet his death was by her hand and sometimes she truly wonders if all this – this revenge, this pain, this boredom – was worth it.

The door groans beneath her touch as she pushes it back and coughs against the must and dirt of the mausoleum.

HENRY MILLS

Beloved Father

Odd that Emma Swan named her son the same. It's not like she could have known.

Placing the lone flower in her hand on top of the coffin, she runs the tips of her gloved fingers over the stone and presses a kiss to its cold surface, the red of her lipstick leaving an oval-shaped blemish.

"Hi, Daddy," she murmurs, before throwing her weight against the side of the sarcophagus and feeling it begrudgingly give under her ministrations. The stone slides against the floor, creating an awful grinding sound, and blue light from below floods the previously dark room.

There are horribly fantastic things down those stairs. It's the most tangible thread she has to her previous life and sometimes it's tempting to want to throw all of this away, all of the sacrifices and the pain, and just go back. Is Snow White's suffering really worth her own?

The air is colder the further she descends and she takes a moment to look around as she reaches her destination. Throwing the black velvet curtain back, she catalogues the rows in front of her. The boxes whose contents hold the most precious of cargoes.

She knows which is his. She's memorized the contours of his chest, the nicks and the dents marring the metal like bruises on skin. Of all of the hearts, she's looked at his the most. It's beating red pulsing in her hand like a light on a buoy, beckoning her home.

She looks at it now, just to know it's still there. Just to know that he's still hers. She's seen the way he looks at Emma Swan. And she knows that having his heart doesn't mean it's hers. It doesn't mean he still can't feel. She wishes she could cut that off, could stop him from using the heart he doesn't have in his chest, but Emma Swan has a greater impact on him that she'd like. And at the moment, she's not quite sure what to do about that.

She blows her breath across the beating organ just to watch it jump, and closing the lid, she ascends once more.

xxxxxx

Graham takes a moment to stand in front of the house that's been more of a home to him than his own dingy apartment, glancing up and remember spaghetti nights that were no longer relegated to Thursdays, movie nights where no one could agree on which film to watch, and regular nights where thoughts were shared over a few beers.

Those nights were probably his favorites.

But before he can wallow anymore in his thoughts, the front door swings open and she stands there, leaning against the jamb and looking at him like she doesn't know whether to hug him or hit him.

"I hear you're having a rough day."

"Who says?"

"Pretty much everyone."

He starts the slow walk up the path, thoroughly aware that every foot he places is one stop closer to her. He left her abruptly – too abruptly – and the wary glance she's giving him is incredibly warranted.

"I had to deal with some things."

"What things?" She crosses her arms over her chest as if to ward him off, and the sight makes his chest hurt.

"Things you wouldn't understand."

"I've been hearing that a lot recently," she replies with no small amount of resentment.

He takes one step, then another, and finally he stands before her. She doesn't uncross her arms and so he shoves his hands in his pockets, just to quell the urge to wrap her up in his embrace.

"I'm sorry I ran off."

"Graham – " she begins to protest, but he gives in to his urge and gently takes hold of her shoulders, cutting her off.

"I'm sorry – I'm sorry I didn't kiss you sooner. I'm sorry I didn't stay and kiss you again. I'm sorry I didn't realize what an idiot I was being and I'm sorry I didn't immediately turn around and come running back."

Her jaw has dropped and her words seem to have deserted her, so he runs his hands down her arms until he meets her palms, holding them tight.

"I'm sorry for every expectation I haven't met and I'm sorry for any promises I won't be able to keep."

He watches as she swallows hard and blinks away the tear in her eye. He knows she doesn't cry easily. In fact, he hasn't seen her cry since the day Henry was born. And he allows himself to hope that, perhaps, he might mean as much to her as she does to him.

"May I come in?"

Wordlessly, she gives a gentle tug on one of his hands and leads him into the foyer, refusing to let go when she turns to shut the door behind him. He takes comfort in that as he traces the inside of her palm with his thumb, dreading that he could possibly be too late. That he's lost the best thing in his life before it's even really begun.

"You left me," she finally murmurs, voice raw, as she releases the grip on his hand. It takes every ounce of strength in him not to whimper.

"I did."

"Don't do that." She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and stares at the floor. "People have a habit of leaving me."

"David didn't."

She nods and looks at him with new determination. "Will you?"

He swallows hard, feeling an ache like no other. "Not if I can help it."

It's the closest he can get to the truth. Anything else would be a promise he's already apologized for breaking. Nothing is certain, least of all his fate. He could go at any moment, and frankly, if she was the last thing saw, he could make peace with that.

"Come here." He leads her over to the couch, mindful that Henry is likely already asleep given the late hour and quiet house, and gently nudges her down on the sofa. But where to start? And what to say?

"There are a lot of things I want to tell you – I _need_ to tell you – but it's complicated."

"I'm a smart woman. I'm sure I could follow."

And he can't help but chuckle, because when she's being stubborn, she gets a crease right in the middle of her forehead – a crease that appears more often than not – and it hits him like a punch to the gut that David has the same expression.

"I have no doubt. My inability to explain is no reflection on you. If I had my way, I'd talk and talk until you kicked me out of your house, just to get some peace."

She gives him a look that seems to say, 'Go on.' And he finally understands the sacrifices David has made for Mary Margaret; for Emma and Henry and every member of this town unable to fight battles they aren't even aware of. Graham understands them because he'd make the same sacrifices in a heartbeat if it kept a smile on Emma's face for just a moment longer.

And with that thought in his mind, he kneels down before her and takes her palm in his hand. "Please know that whatever I'm doing and whatever I can't say, it's all to protect you. To help you. This…" he puts Emma's hand to his where his heart should be, "This is for you. It's not much. But it's all I have."

She sucks in a breath and he feels her fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

"Graham…" she whispers, trailing off as she stubbornly wipes at another tear. And before he knows it, she's in his arms and he's holding on like there's no tomorrow.

xxxxxx

The wind is biting at his face, but David feels nothing beyond the desperate need to find the animal whose tracks he's currently following. They take him in and out of yards, through swing sets and over herb gardens, until he's standing on the edge of Storybrooke's cemetery, staring at a white wolf whose red eyes seem to bore into his very soul.

The wolf takes off and David moves to follow, but a voice to his right has him cursing under his breath.

"Deputy Nolan, nice night for a stroll," Gold says as he limps down the sidewalk. "Ah," he begins as he gets closer, eyes flicking to the badge on David's chest. "Forgive me, I see a promotion has occurred. Sheriff," he amends, giving a little nod.

"Mr. Gold," he grits out as he watches the wolf get farther and farther away. "What can I do for you?"

Gold looks him up and down, likely noting the desperation that no doubt marks his face. "I think the more logical question is what can _I _do for _you_?"

David turns to watch the wolf disappear behind a mausoleum and his stomach drops, as he clenches his fists to keep them from wrapping around Gold's throat.

"Nothing, it would appear. Nothing at all."

"Oh, now," he tsks. "Don't be like that. Can't have anyone wandering around the cemetery alone at night. Even our charmingly brave former deputy."

The word choice pulls David up short and he stares at Gold, trying to catalogue everything he knows about the man and the imp he once was. Cane, pale skin, gleam in his eye. Everything about him screams 'pawnbroker' and yet David can't help but feel like he's dealing with someone capable of infinitely darker deeds.

"Guess not." He forces out a chuckle and taps the badge on his chest. "Perhaps you should have gotten the job."

"Oh no," Gold says, smirking. "That job is meant for only two people. And since one of them gave it up for the other, I'll still sleep soundly tonight."

David eyes Gold warily, unsure of what to do with the praise the man's seemingly putting on offer. "Right. Well – "

"And how is our dear Mr. Humbert?" Gold asks and David stiffens.

"Fine."

"But not up for the job."

"He's taking a leave of absence. The job is his. I'm just keeping the seat warm."

"Ah. I see. Well, you look like a man on a mission, so I'll let you be on your way." Gold doffs a non-existent hat and continues down the rain-slicked sidewalk. "Oh, sheriff?"

And David almost looks to see if Graham is around, before he realizes Gold is still addressing him.

"Yes?"

"If you find yourself in need of an attentive ear, I find that teachers make great listeners."

And with that, Gold saunters down the sidewalk, twirling his cane, leaving David alone to gape after him.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Gold was actually trying to set them up. 

"_Why do you want us together? What do you get out of it?" _

"_I'm a fan of true love, dearie. And more importantly, what it creates." _

The words echo in his head and for the first time in five years, he allows himself to feel as cautiously hopeful as he did that day on the beach, with his sword at his side and mother's ring in his hand.

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret stirs the sauce on the stovetop, breathing in the scent of tomatoes, garlic, and herbs as she tries to forget how the smell would cling to David's clothes hours after the fire under the pot went out.

Emma's been bringing her spaghetti fixings ever since Mary Margaret stopped coming on Thursday nights. It's a tradition that's painful, but one she wouldn't dare stop because right now, it lets her catch up with Emma, check on David, and perhaps most importantly, get to know Henry. The boy tells her all of the stories that David's been reading from the book, only forgetting a few major plot points here and there. The thought of him restarting Alice in Wonderland because he forgot the Mad Hatter's backstory makes her smile and it's a smile she holds until a knock sounds at her door.

Frowning, she wipes her hands on her apron and briefly checks her reflection in the mirror to make sure she doesn't have sauce around her mouth. Deeming herself good to go, she opens the door, expecting maybe Archie or even Graham but the sight of David on the other side is enough to make her pull up short.

He hasn't set foot in her building since he went stumbling out of it on that beautifully awful day so many years ago.

_"If I asked you – if I asked you to have faith, would you?"_

_"I'll always have faith in you." _

_"Would you wait?" _

_"Forever." _

And the memory is enough to shake her from her stupor and pull him into the apartment, glancing around the hall to make sure no one saw his approach.

"What are you doing here?" she asks as she shuts the door, turning and finally getting a good look at just how exhausted he looks. "Are you okay?"

"I need your help."

"Anything," leaves her lips before she can even process the word. Because it's true. She would do absolutely anything he asked.

"Graham's in trouble and I don't – I don't know how to help. I don't know what to do." He harshly runs his hands through his hair and clasps his palms behind his neck. His face is red with all the frustration and emotion he's attempting to lock up and she knows that if he holds it in any longer, he'll lose it.

She knows him well enough still to know this, so she steps forward and gently takes hold of his wrists, bringing them down to his sides as she runs the pad of her thumb in circles across his skin.

"Breathe," she gently instructs and he inhales shakily.

If anyone ever had any doubt of how much Graham and David mean to each other, they need only open their eyes.

"What kind of trouble is Graham in?"

David shakes his head and Mary Margaret smiles sadly.

"It's one of those things you can't tell me, isn't it."

He nods and closes his eyes, as if in pain.

And though every rational part of her brain is screaming that this is a horrible idea, she steps forward and wraps her arms around his neck, holding him tightly as he buries his face in her skin.

"Use what you know," she whispers as she runs her hands up and down his leather-clad back. "You have many strengths, David Nolan. Use them."

And suddenly he stiffens in her arms and abruptly pulls away, the expression on his face similar to a light bulb going off.

"A heart."

"What? Whose heart?"

David shakes his head and focuses on her once more.

"I could kiss you right now."

And that's all the invitation she needs to reach up on her tiptoes and press her lips to his. He makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, but then sinks into her embrace. She's not entirely sure where this newfound gumption came from, but at the moment, she's not up for questioning it.

"Be careful," she whispers when she pulls away and he looks at her with so much love, her knees nearly buckle.

"I miss you," he says.

"I'm right here," she replies.

He smiles sadly and she wonders if the person she is in this moment is really the woman he was referring to.

xxxxxx

Graham tiptoes across the carpeted floor, dodging the Legos that are strewn haphazardly around half-constructed box forts as he makes his way to the tiny bed in the corner of the room.

He remembers when a crib used to be in its place, and a glass mobile caught the light of the morning sun.

The mobile hasn't gone far, though. It hangs from the ceiling in the corner, which he thinks is as far as David and Emma would let it go. There's something about it – some tether to their former land. Graham knows this because he sees the way David looks at it when he thinks no one else is watching.

And in that moment, Graham knows it was Emma's. It was built for her. Meant for her. But never given to her. Just one of the curse's many casualties.

Pushing the grim thought from his mind, he crouches down next to the bed and silently observes the boy bundled in the middle of it.

Henry.

The stuffed wolf is clutched under his left arm and one of David's old shirts under his right. His brown hair is matted to his forehead and Graham reaches out a shaky hand and brushes it away. He's warm – something that can probably be attributed to the Scooby Doo fleece pajamas he insisted on wearing, despite the relatively balmy October they're having.

Henry mumbles something and curls in on himself, and Graham can't help but smile at how perfect the human being before him is. Perfect fingers, perfect toes, perfect eyes, perfect ears.

He rests his chin on the sheets and just stares, cataloguing every feature of Emma's he can find. He doesn't care who Henry's father is. Well, he does – just so he can thank the man for creating half of the incredible boy in front of him and then punch the guy for thinking that Emma was anyone worthy of being left.

No, Graham doesn't entirely care because if the job was ever posted, he'd be the first to apply. He loves Henry like a son, and he loves Emma with a fierceness that cannot be classified. He would fight for her. Die for her. And it's a vow he might actually be able to follow through on; dying for her so she may save their world.

It's a sacrifice he is happy and willing to make, no matter how heartily David swears otherwise.

"Take care of your Mum," he murmurs, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Henry's forehead. "And your grandfather. If this goes south, I have a feeling he'll need one of your proper hugs." His throat is tight and he voice croaks the last few words before failing completely.

He's not sure if or when he'll next see Henry again, so he savors this time, thinking… no _knowing_ that if given the chance, he'd be the best father in the world.

"Bye, little man," he whispers, placing one last kiss on his head and heading down to face the worst farewell of all.

xxxxxx

Emma's pretty shocked she hasn't worn a hole in the floor and fallen through to the basement with her constant pacing back and forth. She's memorized the creak and bend of every floorboard from the staircase to the couch just as clearly as she can feel the burn of his lips against her own.

It's almost like she senses him before she sees him. She knows he's hovering at the top of the stairs, watching her pace the length of the living room, and she's not sure if she wants to call him down or tell him to stay because keeping him at a distance would mean not having to stay whatever farewell he has in store.

And she knows he has one. He must. It's why he can't face her quite yet and why she can't quite call him down. And so they stay, two people unable to traverse a simple staircase because what they'd meet on the other side might prove to be too difficult.

She's about to call him out on it. About to say "You've faced robbers and killers – what's so hard about a little orphan waitress?" But something inside of her keeps the words at bay, and she nearly sags in relief when the front door bursts open and David comes running through.

"Emma?"

"Hey – " she moves toward him, immediately reaching out to steady his frantic movements, but for once, he doesn't have eyes for her.

"Where's Graham?"

"He's up – "

"Here," Graham replies, descending two stairs at a time and she watches as David exhales heavily in relief.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," they simultaneously reply and she rolls her eyes.

"News?" Graham asks and David nods.

She notices they've gone into what she likes to call 'station-mode.' Their spines are straight, their eyes are alert, and their fingers are just a moment's breath from the weapon at their hips. It's a focus she envies, but right now, their grim expressions and no-nonsense attitude have her more and more on edge with every passing second.

David gestures to the door. "We have to go."

"What?" Emma interrupts. "Go where?"

"Business."

"Bullshit," she snaps, stepping in front of the door, but it's not David whose hand takes hold of hers, it's Graham's. He leads her towards the foot of the staircase and more importantly, out of David's earshot.

"What's going on? This isn't a normal case, I know it's not."

He smiles and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Emma Swan. Can't get anything by you."

She's finds that she's cataloguing him – memorizing him – as if she knows there's a small possibility that this will be the last time their eyes meet.

"Whatever happens," he says, swallowing hard, "don't ever stop making lemonade."

"You hate my lemonade."

"I love your lemonade."

A tear falls and she doesn't dare wipe it. "You'll drink it?"

"Always."

She inhales sharply because she knows what he's saying, and she doesn't have the strength to reply in kind.

"I'll see you soon," he finally says but her eyes have been drawn to David and the item he's currently strapping to his hip.

"Is that a sword?"

"Emma," Graham interrupts, cupping her chin with his free hand and bringing her eyes to meet his. "I'll see you soon."

She nods, briefly thinking she probably shouldn't be doing this in front of David, but to hell with it – she presses her lips to his fiercely, pouring as much of 'be careful' into it as she can to protect him from whatever idiotic thing they're both about to do.

He's the first to pull away and he stares at her like the world's just gone Technicolor.

David clears his throat and Graham nods as Emma steps back, unknowingly backing right into David's chest and leaning into him. He's her rock and he's held her up more times than she cares to count.

"We've gotta go," he whispers, pressing a kiss on her head and stepping around her to open the door.

"David?"

He halts in the entryway and glances back to where Graham has paused on the porch.

"Wait in the car?"

Graham nods, sparing one last glance for her before jogging down the path to the waiting vehicle, and it takes every ounce of strength she has to tear her gaze away from him.

"Emma, we'll be right back."

He's lying. She knows he is, but saying one goodbye was hard enough. She might not understand what's going on, but if she has to say one more farewell, David's would surely break her. "You sure?"

He opens his mouth but the words don't come. And she knows they won't because he's never been able to lie to her.

"Graham said goodbye like he was actually saying goodbye." Emma's voice cracks on the final word and the strong façade she worked so hard to build begins to crumble.

"Emma…" David whispers, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. "I'll bring him back."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

And he says it with such conviction, such authority, that she can't help but believe him. Because if anyone in this world has earned her faith, it's David Nolan. Her father and prince, for all intents and purposes.

"Bring yourself back, too," she whispers as he pulls away.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies, giving her a wink as he disappears into the night.

xxxxxx

"She's got a sick sense of humor, hiding my heart in a cemetery," Graham mutters as they pull up alongside a row of tombstones.

"We don't know for sure it's in here – " David begins, attempting to be the voice of reason, but Graham's already unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door.

"But you said you saw the wolf, right? He came this way."

"And then promptly disappeared."

"It's here. I know it is."

David opens his mouth, but knows that arguing would be of no use. He wants the heart to be here more than anything, but he's also lived a life where things have barely gone his way. He would love it if fate finally cut him a break, but he's not exactly holding his breath.

"You're late!" a voice calls from the other side of a tree. "Do you know how badly this stunk up my car?"

David knows it's Jefferson, which probably accounts for his automatic eye roll.

"What stunk up the car?" Graham asks.

"Nevermind," David mutters, pulling out a flashlight to illuminate the Hatter and August loitering under the willow with a cooler by their feet.

"You got it?"

"And got some odd looks in the process," August replies, "but yeah, we got it."

"Got what?" Graham asks again and David can tell his frustration is rising.

"Nothing. Just keep an eye out for anything that might… hold a heart," he trails off lamely, because really, they don't even know what they're searching for. It's a blind game and the prize is an impossibility.

And for as irreverent as Jefferson and August can be, they're taking their part of the plan incredibly seriously and David is forever grateful for that. He barely had to get out 'I need a favor' before they were rising to the challenge. And here they are, flanking Graham on either side as if their mere presence might ward off all manner of ills and despite the situation, David can't help but smile. If he had to go into hell, he'd want these men by his side.

"Wait." Graham suddenly slams to a stop in front of a stone mausoleum, causing August to trip over a root and go sprawling to the ground.

"What is it?" David asks, helping August to his feet.

"It's my heart," Graham murmurs. "It's in there."

David follows his gaze to see a crest with two antlers over the bronze door. "This is Regina's vault."

"What?" Jefferson asks.

"Her father's buried here."

"It's here." Graham's opening the door before David can even call out a warning and before he knows it, they're all crammed into a tiny room, surrounding a stone coffin reading "HENRY MILLS, Beloved Father."

"There's nothing here," August mutters, beaming his flashlight into every possible corner.

"It has to be."

"Well, you tell me – " Jefferson begins snarkily, leaning against the coffin and nearly falling over when it gives way, filtering blue light into the dank room.

"What the hell?"

"Holy shit."

David isn't sure which exclamation belongs to whom, but he's right there with them.

"Told you," Graham mutters as he pushes the stone the rest of the way, revealing a staircase. He starts to go down, but David grabs him by the shoulder and pulls out his sword.

"I'll go first."

"David – "

"I'm your sheriff now, it's not up for discussion."

David isn't sure what he expects to see when he descends – perhaps a torture chamber, some cells, maybe a cauldron – but the knick-knack filled hallway is not what he was prepared for.

"All clear," he calls after he makes a sweep and Graham appears at his side a moment later, followed closely by Jefferson and August.

"Here," Graham whispers as he pulls the curtain back, revealing row after row of metal boxes, their windows pulsing red.

"Are all of these – " August starts, but David interrupts.

"Yeah."

"Do we know who they – "

"No."

The boy gapes as he listens to the beating organs echo around the chamber in the most horrific of melodies.

"Which is yours?"

"This one," Graham says as he pulls out a box and immediately flips the lid open.

"How do you know?" Jefferson asks as he peers over the Huntsman's shoulder.

"I just do." Graham licks his lips and inhales deeply as he reaches in and takes the heart in his hand. "She'll know. The minute she comes down here, she'll know it's gone."

"Well…" David trails off and nods for August to hand him the cooler. "Not if we replace it with this." He opens it to reveal a beating heart not unlike the one Graham holds in his palm.

"It's…"

"A pig's heart. The animal whose organs most closely resemble a human's."

Graham stares at the heart and then at David, hope flickering in his eyes for the first time since the Huntsman and the Sheriff became one.

"How do you know – "

"Mary Margaret told me to use what I know," David shrugs. "I know animals. It might not fool her completely, but it'll buy us time. Either way, it gets your heart out of here." He gestures to the crypt around them and Graham finally nods, seemingly at peace with this relatively ridiculous plan.

"Okay."

"Okay. How does this work?"

"I thought _you_ knew."

Graham raises an eyebrow. "I don't know! She took it out! She never put it back in!"

"Okay, okay," David appeases, taking the heart from Graham's hand and gesturing for Jefferson and August to take a step back. "I'm just going to shove it back in."

"Shove it?" August makes a strangled sound as Jefferson makes a pained expression.

"Ouch."

"Enough," David snaps, taking Graham by the shoulder and bracing him. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," the former sheriff wryly replies as he closes his eyes and holds his breath. "Wait!" he calls out just as David was about to slam his hand forward.

"What?"

"I just need you to know that if this doesn't work… thank you. For everything. Thank you."

David swallows hard and blinks rapidly, telling himself his eyes sting because it's dusty. "You don't have to thank me. You're going to be fine. Ready?"

"Yes."

"You sure this time?" August calls as Jefferson elbows him.

"On three," David begins, holding Graham's gaze. "One… two… three." He thrusts his palm forward and feels nothing but warming numbness. Graham gasps and slumps forward, but David holds tight, keeping the man upright as he withdraws his hand. "You good?" David shakes him. "Graham look at me."

Graham groans as he hangs onto David's shoulder for support. "That was unpleasant."

"Are you okay?" David asks firmly and slowly, needing an answer more than air at the moment.

"I'm good," he grunts, chuckling slightly and finally standing of his own volition. "Great, actually."

David finally lets go, Graham remains upright, and only then does he release the breath he was holding as he vaguely registers August and Jefferson laughing and hugging off to the side. Graham smiles as he stares at him, cupping his face before crashing David into his shoulder and holding him tight.

They don't say anything – words have become superfluous – but the way Graham is shaking and the tears that David can feel on his own cheeks are evidence enough.

"Now what?" Graham asks as he pulls away, hand still hovering over his heart as if to keep it in his chest.

August claps him on the back. "We get the savior to start saving."

"No, now we get the hell outta here," David mutters, placing the pig's heart in the chest and shoving it back into the wall.

If he never sees this place again, it'll be too soon.

xxxxxx

Graham can't help but hold tight to the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it every so often to feel the beat beneath his skin.

He knows David is watching him; has been watching him ever since he knew that a vital piece of his friend was missing. And Graham is forever grateful for that.

He watches Jefferson and August celebrate a few paces ahead of them as they emerge once more into the cool night air and he smiles at how his safety could make anyone else _that _happy. He lived a life of loneliness and now there are three men, two women, and one child that he knows would miss him terribly if he had gone.

This newfound peace might not last forever, but it's something. He glances at David once more and watches as the sword at his side catches the moonlight.

"I gave you my badge and you gave me your daughter. Doesn't quite seem like an even trade."

David's head snaps up as he processes the other man's words.

"I'll give the badge back. But you can hang onto Emma for a bit." David smiles and nods towards his chest. "Make use of that heart."

"Yes, sir."

"Just remember – "

"She's 23 and you have a sword," Graham interrupts. "Trust me, I won't forget."

"Good," David chuckles and Graham sighs, glancing up into the full moon.

Five years. They have five years to go.

"So tell me about this book we're all in…"


	28. Passages Part II

_Passages _

_Part II_

He knows their plot was thrown together at the last desperate minute. He knows Regina will see through it in the time it takes his sword to slice through skin and he knows the solution he's currently pitching is quite possibly the most idiotic thing he's ever done – yet he realizes this is his only hope and he's always been one to put his faith in lost causes.

"You're insane," Jefferson blurts out and David raises an eyebrow.

"You know they call you the _Mad _Hatter, right?"

"Horrible miscommunication. I'm not crazy. I'm angry. Big difference."

"Oh okay," David replies with not a little sarcasm as he slides his arm through the straps of his shoulder holster. He's preparing to head in the direction of the pawnshop, but Graham's hand on his shoulder stays his departure for the fifth time in twice as many minutes.

"I'm coming with you."

"No."

"Ah," Graham starts as he taps his newly returned badge. "Sheriff."

"Ah," David mimics, pointing to a non-existent crown. "King."

"Last I checked, we weren't under your jurisdiction," August calls from the hall as he struggles with the station's vending machine.

"Mind your own business," David growls as August returns with a can of soda.

"It is my business if you're gonna waltz into Gold's store, announce who you are, and get us all killed."

Graham raises an eyebrow as if to say 'See?' but David merely spares the oddly silent Jefferson a quick glance before zipping up his coat.

"I have a feeling he already knows who I am. And if he can help us fool Regina for a bit longer, it may be all the time we need to break the curse."

"Rumplestiltskin can't fool her for five years."

"Well right now, he's our only option!" David snaps. "To get your father back, _Pinocchio_. And to ensure you live long enough to be happy with Emma, _Huntsman_. I'm doing what I think is best for all of us, best for _my daughter, _to ensure the task she was born to doesn't end up costing her life. Do you understand?"

Silence reigns, save for the ticking clock on the wall and David's heavy breathing. The yelling wasn't needed and guilt immediately eats at him, but the words were bound to come one way or another.

"I'll go with you," Jefferson finally says and David is grateful when Graham doesn't argue.

The drive to Gold's is quick and quiet. Frost is nipping at the windshield – the first signs of winter – and for some reason, David chooses this moment to wonder if Henry has finally decided on a Halloween costume.

"Something on your mind, your highness?"

He slowly shakes his head, smiling slightly at the memory of the boy loudly declaring he wanted to be a pirate, and puts the car in 'park.' "You might want to stay out here."

"Not happening, your highness."

"Stop calling me that," David mutters as he opens the car door. "As August said, we're not under my jurisdiction."

He can feel the Hatter's heavy gaze on him as they trudge up the slick walk, but he feels all talked out, and the upcoming encounter will require the finest negotiation skills he can muster.

"It seems when I bought that CLOSED sign, I was just throwing my money away," Gold announces as the door swings back and David quirks a smile, which the pawnbroker returns in kind. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, demoted already, I see."

David glances down at his deputy badge and offers Gold a self-deprecating grin. "Apparently I wasn't up for the job."

"Oh now, I hardly believe that. A man with your… credentials."

"Son of a bitch," Jefferson whispers, and yes, now they're on the same page. Gold knows. There's no mistaking it.

"Rumpelstiltskin, we need your help."

Gold's eyebrows hit his hairline and he chuckles. "Well, well, well. I see your tact is in full bloom, your highness. Can't get anything by you."

"Nor you."

Gold comes around the counter and spins a globe along the way. "Let me guess: this has to do with our good friend, the Huntsman."

David reluctantly nods and Gold smiles knowingly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you two were a thing."

Jefferson barks out a laugh and David claps him upside the head. "Hilarious. Look, there's an animal heart that needs to beat and glow. What do you want in return?"

"For my help? Nothing at all."

At this, even Jefferson looks skeptical as David crosses his arms over his chest. "I know you, Gold. That's not how you work."

"Well, I want nothing in return because I can't help you. I need magic. This land doesn't have it."

"Emma does," Jefferson replies and immediately, David's ears are ringing. Emma has magic? _His_ Emma?

Gold smiles in a way that says he's known this fact all along and is only mildly put out that Jefferson has called him on it. "Indeed she does. The product of true love _is _magic."

And then it hits him. Gold knows this because he's used it before.

"You reset the curse," he says lowly. "You're the reason I didn't remember Emma when she came back."

"To be fair, your highness, I reset it on myself as well."

David lunges for him, but he's held back by Jefferson's firm grip. Hate burns through his veins like fire as he stares at the man that kept him from his little girl. He could have called. He could have adopted her. Hell, he could have done a paternity test to prove that she was rightfully his. But that never happened, and magic cruelly ripped her away again.

"Easy," Jefferson murmurs in his ear, but David pays it no heed. "Calm down, your highness."

He doesn't care that this man is Henry's grandfather – that they are so preciously linked. Right now, he wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around Gold's throat and squeeze until the life drains out of him.

"I understand your pain," Gold begins, moving closer yet remaining out of arm's reach. "It was done under duress. I assure you, the Queen has collateral on me, just as she has on everyone in this town."

"And what could she possibly have that's so precious to you?" he spits out, yet stops struggling. But it's not Jefferson's grip that gets him to surrender – it's the broken look on Gold's face as his finger traces the rim of a chipped cup on the counter.

"Someone very dear to me."

"… _a brief flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness." _

The words come back to him and he glances at the man before him with newfound understanding. It's a mark they all seem to bear: loving and losing.

"Will you help us?" he asks softly.

"I'll think about it."

His heart drops like a leaden weight and his shoulders sag under the great burden they carry. He feels Jefferson's hands attempt to steer him out of the store, but everything beyond that is numb.

"Deputy," Gold calls when they reach the door and David turns. "The Hatter calls you 'your highness' out of respect."

And David thinks back to all the times Gold has addressed him as such and wonders briefly if it was done sincerely or mockingly. "Your point?"

"Two people with a common goal can do many things," the pawnbroker continues with a glint in his eye that David doesn't like one bit. "I'll help you because I have a feeling that when the war comes – and it will – I'll want you on my side."

"We'll see," the prince replies, allowing Gold to pass by him with a knowing smile before following him out the door.

That night, Gold arrives at the Nolan/Swan home under the pretense of picking up an item for the store. He shakes Emma's hand and feels the familiar tingle of magic light his fingerprints.

As promised, the counterfeit heart throbs and glows before all interested parties go to sleep that night, and Regina is none the wiser.

_December_

She watches them with a careful eye. As carefully as she watches the crust of her apple tart in the oven to ensure it doesn't get burnt.

Sometimes she goes to the vault, just to hear the cacophony of hearts – to know that each of them beats in a symphony just for her. On more than one occasion, she's reached for the box she knows to contain his, but she can't bring herself to actually open the chest. A small voice inside of her tells her she's going weak, which only causes her heart to harden further. Yet still…

The box remains unopened.

Regina watches them in the diner, the little Charming family. Watches David as he attempts to wrestle Henry into a booster seat, watches Emma as she liberally douses her hot chocolate with cinnamon, watches Mary Margaret watch them with a longing Regina claims not to empathize with, and perhaps most of all, watches Henry and how he seems to light up every person he encounters.

"Excuse me. Excuse me!"

She feels a tap on her thigh and she turns on her stool to find the boy in question standing next to her, holding onto the hem of her jacket.

"Excuse you for what?"

"I burped." He smiles and she raises an eyebrow.

"That's rude."

"Which is why I said 'scuse me."

Clever boy.

"Henry?" Swan's voice is tinged with the first signs of panic and Regina relishes the sound, before sighing and giving the boy a nudge.

"You're worrying your mother."

"Here, Mama!" he turns and gives her an enthusiastic wave and Regina tries not to feel superiorly smug when Emma blanches at seeing her son's company.

"Madam Mayor, I'm sorry if he was bothering you."

"Not at all," Regina replies and is surprised to find she actually means it.

Yes, Regina's playing with fire.

And she's going to get burnt.

_June_

Graham frowns as he sidles up to the bar, plopping down on an empty stool next to his deputy.

"It's Tuesday."

"Last I checked," David replies.

"But… you never come to the bar on a Tuesday. Tuesday is story night. You're supposed to be reading to Henry. Who's reading to Henry?!"

David looks surprised for all of a moment before bursting into laughter, and yes, Graham supposes he did get a little carried away, but story time is _sacred_ time. "Henry's at a sleepover. I'm reading to him tomorrow night."

"Good," he replies once he's composed himself. "You're getting to my story and you know that's the best one."

"Is not."

"Is too."

David's laughter dies quickly, which is Graham's first clue that something is amiss, if drinking on a Tuesday didn't quite hit that fact home. No, his friend's forehead is creased, much in the same way Emma's is when she's trying to figure out her next move in Monopoly. David plays with the label on his beer, slowly peeling it off and letting it crumple on the bar next to the bowl of peanuts.

"What's going on?"

"There's something you need to know."

Immediately, his heart drops and with it everything his heart contains. "Is it Emma? Henry?"

"They're fine… but it concerns them," his deputy cryptically says and it's enough to warrant Graham's wrath.

"David!" he hisses, punching him in the arm.

"Ow! It's about Henry's father!" he groans, rubbing his bicep. "Man, that hurt."

"Is this why you brought me to a public place?" he asks incredulously, glancing around at the patrons who are either too drunk to notice or too apathetic to care about the conversation at hand.

"Well, clearly it did nothing to deter your more lupine tendencies," David replies, taking a long pull of his beer and shifting uncomfortably on the stool.

"I don't want to know about him," Graham firmly states, giving a nod to the bartender who puts a beer in front of him, briefly considering immediately ordering another.

"You need to."

"No, he's _my – "_ Graham halts and glances around once more before continuing in a lowered voice. "He's my son. In the ways it counts, he's mine."

Something soft passes across David's features before he leans in and places a hand on the sheriff's shoulder. "I know that and no one is trying to say otherwise."

"Then why are we here?" They need to keep their voices down. Emma is an incredibly private person naturally, but there's an added need to keep their relationship a secret. One that Graham needs to protect in spite of David's attempt to ensure his safety by having this conversation in front of potential witnesses.

"His father is Gold's son," his deputy blurts out and Graham's world goes white.

Henry's father is Rumpelstiltskin's son.

"Well, shit."

He orders that second beer.

And then a third and a fourth.

_November_

"This is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas."

"Where's your holiday spirit?" Graham asks as he opens the oven door to check on the turkey.

"In the liquor cabinet. I'll bring it out in a bit," Emma wryly replies, before turning to watch David teach Henry how to throw a mini-football in the snow.

"Oh now," Graham starts as he turns and places a kiss on her head. "None of that."

"You've invited half the town over."

"Excuse you," August calls from the living room. "I do not count as half the town."

"I didn't," Graham ignores. "David did."

"What did I do?" the man himself asks as he opens the back door with Henry hiked up on his hip. They're both wearing more snow gear than one person should physically be able to wear. He puts Henry on the floor and the boy promptly falls over. "Are you grumpy again?"

Emma bristles with indignation and eyes the liquor cabinet with new desperation. "No."

"Liar," the men answer simultaneously, but Emma ignores them in favor of helping Henry out of his coat and mittens.

"Mama, I threw a football!" Henry exclaims as he kicks off his boots, and Emma holds tight to him to keep him from falling over once more.

"I saw, baby. Good job."

"Gramps taught me."

"I know," she says softly, but her eyes don't remain on her son. No, they venture to Graham who always looks at David with the strangest expression whenever 'Gramps' leaves Henry's mouth. It's like he's just learned the most heartbreaking secret and can't quite tell anyone about it.

"How are your toes?"

"Froze."

"And your nose?" She asks, rubbing hers to his.

"Froze," Henry replies before finally being released from his snow overalls and running over to where David is hanging up his jacket.

"Oof," David exclaims as Henry grabs hold of his leg and sits on his boot, one of his favorite games to play as David drags him around the house. "Where's Jefferson?"

"No doubt battling Granny for the last can of cranberry sauce," Emma remarks as she tastes the gravy spoon Graham is holding out.

"No, he's in my book," Henry pipes up, and she didn't think it was possible for a once-bustling kitchen to get so silent all at once. Even the football game August is watching in the living room seems to have been turned down, as all eyes in the kitchen land on Henry, still sitting atop David's foot.

"He's where?"

"In my book," Henry simply says as he attempts to untie David's shoe. "He has a hat. A Grace and a hat."

David laughs a laugh she knows to be forced – she's heard him laugh genuinely and this is not one of those times – as he swoops down to scoop Henry in the air, holding him high as his giggles echo around the kitchen.

"Someone's been reading too much!" Graham chuckles tentatively as the football game resumes its normal volume.

Emma raises an eyebrow, vaguely registering the timer on the microwave going off. "Why are you all being weird?"

"We're not being weird," they simultaneously say, doing nothing to help their case.

But after dinner, when Henry points to the Mad Hatter in his book, even Emma can't deny the resemblance.

_September_

Jefferson sits on the wall across the street, as he always does on the first day of school. He wonders what color backpack Grace will have (it's always pink, but he likes to guess anyway), and he wonders if she'll wear her hair in braids or down (it's usually down, but again, it's all part of the game he plays).

"She's beautiful," comes a voice to his right, and Jefferson turns to find David hopping up on the wall to join him.

"She is. Takes after her mother."

"Nah. I see you in there." David offers him a kind smile and resumes watching the kids pour into the school, Henry among them.

"You didn't have to come."

"I know."

It's all the prince says and, despite the fact that this is a ritual he's done alone every year for the past 24 years, Jefferson's grateful for the company.

_March_

"You're ignoring me," August says on Emma's next pass by his spot at the counter.

"You're a crappy tipper," she replies with a wink as she moves to refill Leroy's coffee.

"Not true," he replies, ignoring David who chuckles next to him.

"Very true. Would you like me to pull the receipts and go over them with you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Didn't think so."

She disappears into the kitchen and August sees David biting his lip to keep from laughing. "Maybe she should be the cop in the family."

"Maybe," the deputy replies with a fond, proud smile. "She'd be a good one."

And of that, August has no doubt. She's spent a lifetime finding people, without even realizing that the family she ended up with was the one she was looking for in the first place.

If only she'd realize it.

Emma returns from the kitchen and places August's waffles down in front of him none-too-gently with a sarcastic "Bon appetit."

"You have David's eyes," August blurts out. "You ever notice that before?"

David promptly chokes on the remainder of his omelet as Emma frowns.

"Not really," she says with an odd look, before reaching over to clap David on the back and moving to help Ruby carry an order to a table.

"Easy does it," David mutters as he passes August, clapping a hand on his shoulder in farewell.

August watches his retreating form long after the bell over the door has signaled his departure.

"She just has to believe," he whispers, stomach knotting at the thought of all David has done and all he's sacrificed.

"Believe what?" Emma asks, propping her elbows on the counter and raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing."

"Aw come on. You know I was teasing about the crappy tipping thing."

"I know."

She stares at him a moment longer, like she knows he's hiding something. He has a feeling that Emma Swan can see right through him to the bones and organs beneath. Through skin and lies and made-up identities; straight through to the truth – no matter how fantastical it might seem.

"You're going grey."

"What?" he asks, shaking his head slightly.

"Here," she replies, reaching across the counter and tapping his temple. "You're going a little grey."

He's going grey because, with every passing year, he's getting older. Because he cannot see his father despite the fact that the man lives minutes away. Because Emma Swan is stressing him out more than any human being should be stressed and frankly –

Well, frankly, he can use this to his advantage.

"David and Graham must have good genes, then."

"Huh?"

"Neither of them is going grey. And they've got at least a decade on me." He drops a twenty on the counter (much more than he actually owes) and saunters out of the diner, knowing that Emma's gaze remains on his empty seat because he's sparked something within her. The wheels are turning and the evidence is mounting.

Yes, she'd make a great cop. And maybe one day, she'll actually join the family business.

_December_

"Bedtime, kiddo!"

"Aw, Mom! We're gettin' to the best part! Prince Charming is about to fight a dragon!"

"Which he's done the past thirty times you've read that part. I don't think the outcome is going to change," she replies as she holds up his Captain America pajamas enticingly. Emma isn't sure when her son moved from 'Mama' to 'Mom,' but she finds she misses the former, as much as she loves the latter.

Henry raises an all-too-adult eyebrow at her and responds, "You never know. He looks like Gramps. And Gramps is crafty."

David bursts out laughing as Emma shakes her head at her son and the words he's picked up.

"You've been around August too much."

"Nuh uh!"

"Listen to your mom, little man," David says as he deftly picks Henry up from where the boy was nestled into his side and sets him down on the floor. "We'll pick up tomorrow."

"But the Prince – "

"Will live to fight another day," David interrupts with a wink before bending down, placing a kiss on Henry's head and attempting to shoo him in Emma's direction. It would have been adorable if Henry hadn't picked that moment to spill the cup of milk he was drinking all over David's shirt.

"I'm sorry!" the boy promptly exclaims and David chuckles.

"No harm done," he replies as he pulls off his shirt, and Emma is already thinking of what else she can throw in the wash with it, because the scent of stale milk is not something she wants lingering around the house.

She's used to his scars – she's seen him shirtless before – and she's had her moment to come to terms with them, but it never occurs to her that Henry hasn't been afforded the same courtesy.

His small gasp is the first thing that draws her attention and Emma meets David's panicked gaze over Henry's small head. They didn't prepare for this – for the questions his marks might bring, but whatever she was expecting is nowhere near what actually leaves the boy's mouth.

"I know who you are," Henry whispers with no small amount of wonder as he cautiously steps forward and traces the scars that mar David's body. He's not afraid, she realizes, as he tugs David down on one knee to get a closer look at the one on his shoulder. In fact, he seems… excited.

And David – David is looking at Henry with a mixture of fear and relief the likes of which she's never seen.

"I know who you are," Henry murmurs again.

"Baby, what are you talking about?"

But David's gone pale as he stares at her son, eyes flicking over every feature she and Neal gave him.

"It'll be our secret," Henry finally whispers, before turning, grabbing the pajamas from her hand and bolting up the stairs.

"What was that about?"

David visibly swallows and slowly gets up off the floor.

"No idea."

"What?" she chuckles, "does he think you're Prince Charming or something?"

David stiffens and manages a tight smile.

"Of course not. That would be ridiculous," he replies in a way that makes her think it's not ridiculous at all.

_August_

The classroom is hot and muggy and it reminds her of how grateful she is that the school year doesn't span the summer months. A breeze occasionally creeps through the open windows, but it isn't enough to keep her blouse from sticking to her back.

She left her pre-term cleaning and organizing until the last minute, because entering the school a moment before August 28th at 9am was something that she just couldn't muster the strength to do.

"Knock, knock," someone says and she smiles when she glances up to see the sheriff in her doorway.

"Graham. Everything all right?"

He looks at her oddly. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well the last time you came to visit me at school, you weren't exactly doing your best."

He seems to smile at the memory, but it's tinged with something else. Fear? Pain? Both?

"I come on much lighter terms, I promise."

"And what terms are those?" she asks as she places a book on a shelf, secretly hoping that they both do and don't have anything to do with David.

"Just seeing how you are. I saw your car in the lot and thought I'd pop in."

"Oh." She manages a smile as she gets a cloth and begins to wipe down the desks. "I'm well. And yourself?"

"Good, good." He nods and seems to be weighing what he wants to say next. "You're missed at spaghetti night."

And suddenly her gut twists.

"Yes, well, I miss spaghetti night, too," she replies softly. And she does. She misses David and Emma arguing over how much garlic to put on the garlic bread. She misses Graham filling everyone's wine glass when they're not looking until suddenly, they're all a bit tipsy. She misses David attempting to play footsy with her under the table and accidentally getting the sheriff instead. She misses it all, and most of all, she misses him.

"He loves you, you know."

She freezes at Graham's words and slowly leaves the rag on the middle of the half-clean table. "I know he does."

"I know why David's doing what he's doing," he says as he leans against a desk. "I'm here because I want to make sure _you _understand. Because if you think anything less than the absolute highest of him, then I need to set the record straight."

And in that moment, Mary Margaret wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around this man – this man who would defend his best friend to the very ends of the earth. And so she does, stepping forward and hugging him tightly because she can't hug David and at least she knows that Graham will pass the message along.

"I can assure you that I think the very highest of him," she murmurs. "I love him. And always will."

She feels Graham nod against her shoulder and she pulls away, voice thick. "But you're very sweet to ask."

He stands and attempts to surreptitiously wipe something from his eye, before jokingly replying, "All part of the job, ma'am."

But it's not. And his checking on her never is, yet he does it anyway.

_April_

"Uncle Graham, can I have these?" Henry asks as he holds up a pair of handcuffs.

"No," Graham replies.

"Aw c'mon," August says, as he kicks his feet up on David's desk, wincing slightly. "Let the kid have some fun."

"Yeah, let the kid have some fun," Henry pipes up as he slips his small hand through one of the handcuff rings without even having to open it.

"You," Graham begins, pointing at August, "are a bad influence."

"I'm a _great_ influence."

August looks older than Graham does now, even though Graham's got over twenty years on him. It's a constant reminder of the curse and the great burden they all bear.

Graham's been watching him carefully and something is different. He's less… jovial. He's always been the one to break the tension with a joke, but now his shoulders are nearly at his ears with all of the stress he's harboring.

"How come you're limping?" Henry asks as August gets up and stretches, and the rapidity with which August denies any such thing makes Graham's eyes narrow.

"Hey, kid, go get some candy from the vending machine," he instructs, holding out a dollar bill.

"Really?" Henry asks, eyes alight.

"Yeah, but don't tell your mother you got it from me!" Graham calls as Henry runs into the hallway, causing August to snort.

"And you say _I'm _the bad influence."

But Graham is having none of it. "Lift up your trousers."

The smile slides from August's face. "What?"

"Lift up your trousers. The kid's gone. What the hell's going on?"

He waits until August sighs heavily and reaches down, pulling his pant leg up. Graham bends down and places a hand on the smooth wood, the work of an expert craftsman.

"Damn," he murmurs. "How long's it been like this?"

"The past few weeks," August replies. "I didn't want… I didn't want to bother anyone."

"You're not a bother."

August scoffs. "You lost a heart. David lost a wife, Jefferson a daughter. I'm turning to wood. Big deal."

Graham stands and takes his shoulders, forcing the man in front of him to meet him eye to eye.

"It is a big deal. None of us do this alone. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," August finally replies after a moment.

"Good."

Possiblw solutions are already turning in his mind, but whatever comfort they might bring is broken by the sound of a candy bar hitting the floor behind them. Graham turns to find Henry looking at both of them, and more importantly, August's leg, realization dawning in eyes he didn't get from his mother.

"I _knew _it."

Shite. He's such a bad influence.

_January_

It's not a phone call anyone wants to get: a fall. A broken bone. A trip to the hospital.

He's debating turning the sirens on, just to get him there faster, but the streets are relatively clear in the middle of the workday and so he pushes the pedal down harder.

Emma said she'd meet him there. Through barely contained tears, his daughter called him and told him she needed him and he was in the car before she even told him where to go.

He blows through the door, stopping briefly at the front desk to find out which room Henry is in before taking off down the hall. He's a man on a mission and not even one of the Queen's curses could stop him, but what he sees when he gets to room 206 is enough to steal the strength from his legs and the breath from his lungs.

"… And yes, she was beyond hope. Beyond saving. This was her end. When Prince Charming saw his beloved Snow White in her glass coffin, he knew all that was left was to say 'goodbye.' He had to give her one last kiss, and when he did, True Love proved more powerful than any curse. A pulse of pure love shuddered out and engulfed the land, waking up Snow White and bringing light to the darkness."

The memories and emotions from that day hit him like a truck and he has to hold onto the doorjamb for support, lest his body lose its battle to remain upright.

"Gramps!" Henry calls upon seeing him. "We're gettin' to the best part."

David nods, doing a quick inventory the boy in the bed with the bright blue cast on his arm. He seems none the worse for wear, and so David's gaze finally drifts to the other person in the room. She gave him a scar and he gave her his heart. Funny how things work out.

"Hi," he croaks.

"Hi," Mary Margaret quietly replies, standing up from the edge of the bed and allowing him to move forward and take her place.

"What were you doing?" he asks, brushing the hair off Henry's forehead.

"Fighting a dragon, like you," Henry simply replies, pointing to the wooden sword that David only now registers is in Mary Margaret's hand.

"He fell from the monkey bars," she supplies, smiling faintly. "He was a brave boy when the ambulance came."

"Runs in the family," Henry replies, giving his grandfather a theatrical wink.

"Brave though you may be, your mother is worried sick."

And Emma, always with impeccable timing, chooses that moment to come sprinting into the room.

"Are you okay?" she asks and she tries to regain her breath, rushing over to David's side and practically sitting in his lap in her effort to get to her son.

David smiles and stands, letting Emma take his spot and he sees Mary Margaret attempt to slip out of the room, but his hand shoots out and gently takes hold of her wrist, keeping her by his side.

"Where do you think you're going?" he murmurs.

"I thought you'd want some time alone. With family."

His heart constricts painfully as he gazes her, cataloguing everything she's passed on to their daughter who sits mere feet away. Her chin, her ears, her bravery, her gumption. Everything good about Emma has come from Snow, and David can't help but slide his hand down her arm and entwine their fingers together.

"This is family," he quietly replies and Mary Margaret blinks rapidly, before glancing over at Emma and Henry once more.

He remembers the lie she told the night before his wedding – the lie that saved his life while simultaneously breaking both of their hearts. He only hopes she can forgive him this, when all is said and done. He hopes she can remember this moment, as her palm fits so perfectly in his and know that he tried to bear the brunt of the heartbreak, but failed in this – the most important of tasks.

He hurt her. He hurt his wife. And he's hurting her now, even as he clings tightly to her.

But four simple words fall from her mouth, buoying his hopes and easing his fears.

"Family," she echoes, gazing back at him once more. "I guess so."

_October_

"When is your apartment going to stop being a man cave?"

"It's not a man cave!" Graham defends, pausing his hunt in the fridge for a beer just long enough to poke his head out and give her an offended look.

"Why do you think I never bring Henry with me when I come over?"

And for a moment, Graham can't help the pout he knows to be on his face. "I thought David just wanted quality time with him."

"He does. Though God knows, he's probably just filling his head with more fairytale crap."

"What fairytale crap?" His voice is strangled, but Emma miraculously seems not to notice.

"Don't pretend like you don't know. You do it, too," she teases as she passes him, tapping his bum along the way. "Now where are these supposed blackmail photos of David you have from Sean's bachelor party?"

"In the drawer over there," he replies, pointing to the desk in the corner of the room and Emma is only too happy to start rifling through. "I burned all of the ones involving the stripper… Just kidding." He chuckles at his own joke, but frowns when Emma doesn't join in. Even if it's a bad joke, she usually humors him, because that's just who she is.

"Em?" he peers over at her, but she's frozen to her spot, staring at something like her whole world's just been spun in the other direction.

"Graham," she whispers, the photo in her hand shaking just as badly as her voice. "What is this?"

She holds it up and Graham finally sees what she sees: David completely distracted by the laughing little girl in his arms whose face is covered with chocolate icing. The little girl who is the spitting image of Emma when she was six-years-old, wearing a green party hat to match David's orange one.

_Oh God._

"Graham, what the hell is this?"


End file.
